


A Writer of Fictions

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, HP: EWE, Holidays, Humor, Magical Artifacts, Muggle Life, Muggles, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Roommates, Spells & Enchantments, Travel, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-04
Updated: 2009-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 333,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new term in a new place offers unexpected surprises and challenges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Michaelmas

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the first in a series. Following **AWOF** are **Second Chapter,** **Baby Days,** **Baby Days 2: The Turning of the Wheel,** and my new WIP, **Family Album,** in that order.
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> Winner, _Best WIP_ : Dramione Awards, Round One.  
> Runner-Up, _Best Post-DH_ and _Most Romantic_.
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> Winner, _Best EWE? Epilogue Ignored_ : Dramione Awards, Round Three.  
> Runner-Up, _Best Epic_ and _Best Romance_
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>  **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
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> **Beta Readers: mister_otter and kazfeist, and floorcoaster, too, in the early chapters**

 

 

  
  


 

"I am a writer, writer of fictions,  
I am the heart that you call home  
I've written pages upon pages  
trying to rid you from my bones...”

\--“The Engine Driver”  
The Decemberists

 

The sun-dappled leaves had begun to turn and the air was growing crisp in the early mornings and evenings. It was the first week of October and the first, or Michaelmas, term had just begun. Hermione clutched several rather heavy books to her chest and strode across the quad, deep in thought. But it wasn’t her classes she was ruminating about, nor the very long paper she was about to begin researching, nor the fact that she was _here_ , at Oxford, finally realising a dream she’d had since she was ten.

It was the year that ought to have been her final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that she was thinking about so intently. It had been a year from hell, not the purposeful, quiet, orderly, academically rigorous experience she had always anticipated. Her NEWTs had been set aside, as she’d spent the better part of the term on the run with Harry and Ron. That is, until everything had come to an insane, explosive end, and Harry had finally done it—finally ended the life of the creature, for that is what Tom Riddle had become ultimately, who had terrorised the entire wizarding world for far too many years, wreaking havoc and death on the Muggle world as well before being brought to his ignominious end.

After that, they’d all begun to pick up the pieces of their lives very slowly and painstakingly. She’d thought the rest of hers would be spent with Ron. They’d grown closer gradually, during those crazy months of living in hiding; there had been stretches of time when they never knew from one day to the next where they’d sleep that night or where their next meal might come from. Being together had seemed to be what they both wanted and had been meant for.

Funny thing about that. Destiny, fate, call it what you will. It can play tricks, fool your heart into believing even when the vital piece is still missing. In this case, the vital piece had been small. But she’d felt its absence even when she couldn’t put a name to what was missing.

She and Ron had lasted for three months following the death of Voldemort and then had called it a day. It was, she believed, just as much a relief for him as it had been for her. Painful, yes, certainly. It had been wrenching at the time, but surprisingly easy to get over once the initial break had been made. She realised afterwards that it was because the bond, while strong, hadn’t been the _right_ sort and never had been, no matter how much they and others might have wished it so.

So now here she was, at the university she’d dreamt of attending for as long as she could remember. The wizarding and Muggle worlds were still very separate, but attitudes of the former were being forced to change towards the latter, now that the virulent racism of Voldemort’s regime had been discredited and rejected once and for all. The re-formed Ministry of Magic had even encouraged young witches and wizards to go out into the wider Muggle world and explore a bit, get their proverbial feet a bit wet, and bring back what they learned so as to help cement positive attitudes within the community towards those outside it who did not live intimately with magic. Attending university and doing it non-magically was one excellent way, the Minister felt, to accomplish this. Special, intensive classes had been offered in the parts of the castle that had sustained the least damage, in order to prepare interested students for their university entrance exams. The course had lasted an entire term, a sort of unofficial “eighth” year for those who stayed, beginning with a chance to review for NEWTs and get those out of the way. Once that was done and everyone had qualified as fully fledged wizards, it was time to begin preparing for academic life in the Muggle world, and for this class of young wizards and witches, this was completely outside the realm of their experience. Specially qualified faculty had been hired to help prepare the students for the vast areas of knowledge they’d never touched on previously.

Admissions procedures would be gently bent in many institutions of higher learning across the UK, so that magical and Muggle relations could be further improved by the inclusion of young wizards and witches—the same philosophy as that which informed Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, but at a much higher level. Nevertheless, the prep course gave them all a window through which to see the rigours that awaited them, and they were formidable.

They’d sat their entrance exams in June of that next year. Everyone who qualified was admitted to the university of his or her choice. For Hermione, the letter from Oxford indicating that they were holding a place for her was every bit as momentous, in its own way, as the letter she’d received from Hogwarts eight years earlier.

On this golden autumn afternoon, Hermione’s thoughts were swirling around those last days of the war when chaos had defined her life hour to hour. She sat down on a bench and closed her eyes, almost oblivious to where she was, her expression pensive. A light breeze, fragrant with the sweet, seasonal perfume of brightly coloured falling leaves, ruffled her hair, lifting her spirits. She was unaware at first when somebody stopped right in front of her.

When she did open her eyes, whoever it was had already gone, leaving only a flurry of scarlet and gold leaves swirling in his or her wake. Squinting, she could make out a figure in a dark, fleece pullover and jeans, the hood pulled up over his head, hurrying away. For a split second, the hood slipped a little, and there was a flash of bright hair before its owner yanked it back up again.

Three days later, Hermione slipped into her seat for her Mediaeval Lit lecture. It was the first meeting of the term and the students, still coming in and milling about, waited patiently for the lecturer to arrive.

At three minutes before the hour, a small clutch of last-minute students burst in and hurriedly found seats. One in particular, a tall boy with a coiled, sinewy grace about him, sat down directly in front of Hermione, casually resting his arm across the back of the empty seat next to him. She glanced up to see, and realised, with a start, that it was the same boy she’d seen three days earlier. He was wearing the same dark blue pullover, its hood pulled up against the chill.

She still hadn’t seen his face, but Hermione found herself inadvertently staring at the back of his head. For the better part of an hour, as the lecturer droned on, she watched as he bent to scribble notes, then looked up to listen. Down, up, down, up, bend, straighten. Once— _once_ —he turned his head ever so slightly and she caught a very brief glimpse of his face, partly obscured by the hood of his pullover. But it was so fleeting that she couldn’t really get a sense of his features.

That is, until he turned his head all the way around to look right at her, the hood slipping down.

A pair of all-too-familiar grey eyes opened very wide in a flash of genuine surprise, then regarded her speculatively, and finally, one eyebrow rose in an amused question. They looked at each other for what felt to Hermione like an hour. In reality, it was closer to thirty seconds—an agonising thirty seconds. When finally she found herself too dumbstruck to do anything more than stare, her mouth slightly open like a guppy, he grinned and turned back around.

Oh, this was not good. She’d already wasted too much time being distracted by the back of his head _before_ she’d realised who it was. Now she found herself obsessing about the number of minutes left before the end of the lecture and what she’d say and do when it did end. Merlin above! _Draco Malfoy!_ And then _Focus, Hermione. Your first class. Pay attention._

Instead of which, all she could think about was how funny and out of place it was to see Malfoy using a Biro for the first time, and writing in a spiral-bound notebook, instead of the traditional quill and parchment.

All right, to be fair, she supposed she really ought not be all that surprised. After all, she _had_ been peripherally aware of him in that intensive prep course; she remembered being taken aback on that first day a year before, wondering what had led Draco Malfoy, of all people, to seek a path outside the boundaries of the wizarding world, and then she promptly forgot about him, given that the class was fairly large and the work both constant and demanding. It was easy to lose oneself in it, putting blinders on everything but the most immediate goals. Still. To find him _here_ …

Hermione had been fortunate in that she had been a lifelong reader, and even after Hogwarts became the whole of her education, she’d always read widely in Muggle literature. She found that this voracity stood her in good stead now, but only went so far – she knew she would have to work twice as hard as everyone else in order just to keep up. She wondered now, still gazing thoughtfully at the back of Malfoy’s blond head, how he was faring.

At last the lecture was over. The lecturer, Dr. Ponsonby, directed their attention to a list of suggested readings and then strode out a side exit. Hermione busied herself packing up her books, studiously checking that everything was in place three times over. Hoping he might have left by this time, she raised her eyes for a tentative glance and found him leaning against the seat backs in the row in front of his own, his arms folded over his chest, patiently watching her with a faint, somewhat enigmatic smile.

“Have you quite finished? Because I’m starved, and the half hour I had for eating something is now down to twenty minutes. Coming?”

All Hermione could do was nod and grab her rucksack, because he’d already turned and was heading out the door into St Cross Road, up Longwall and into the nearby High Street.

 

*

 

“Coffee okay?” Draco muttered distractedly, fishing his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. She nodded absently, thinking all the while how strange it was to see him dressed like this, as if he’d been born to it. She had to admit, he certainly did the jeans justice. Or was it the other way round? Either way, he looked damned good.

“…and two lemon raspberry squares, please. Thanks!” she heard him say, coming out of her reverie. Hmm. Arrogant as ever, not even asking what she might like, just assuming she’d want the same as he.

“That’ll be four pounds ten,” the woman at the register of the Rose Cafe said crisply.

“Right,” Draco muttered, pulling out some money.

“Do you need some hel-“ Hermione began, only to have her offer waved away. She watched, slightly incredulous, as he quite competently counted out the proper amount and handed it over, pocketing the change. His facility with Muggle money was startling. Well, his apparent facility with everything Muggle was startling, so far.

Hermione was intrigued.

 

*

 

They sat at a nearby table, dropping their rucksacks to the floor. Shortly afterwards, the waiter brought their food over, carefully setting coffees and plates of cake between them. Plumes of aromatic steam rose from the china cups.

 

Hermione took a small, careful sip and then looked curiously at Draco.

“What--?” she began.

He held up his hand.

“You’re wondering what in Merlin’s name I’m doing here.” He lifted the coffee cup to his lips, letting his acknowledgment hang rather dramatically in the air.

Hermione nodded expectantly.

“Same as you, I expect. Reading for my degree.”

“Well, obviously. But…” She couldn’t help herself. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… _why?_ ”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it so difficult to imagine that I’d want to further my education at one of the finest institutions in the world?”

“Frankly,” Hermione replied, “yes! I don’t get it. I mean, I remember you being in the prep class, but, well…seeing you _here_ …”

“It’s the best place for me to study what I love most. Simple as that.” He stirred his coffee to cool it a bit, and took a forkful of the cake. A curl of creamy lemon curd remained on his lip, and before she realised what she was doing, Hermione had reached over to wipe it off. Suddenly embarrassed at her own presumption, she withdrew her hand.

“You… uh… had some… on your…” She pointed, blushing.

He touched his lip and found the remains of the lemon curd, drew a fingertip over the area and then popped his finger into his mouth.

“Thanks,” he said, absently licking its tip.

Hermione was thinking back to what he’d just said. Simple as what? Malfoy studying at Muggle Oxford simply because he _wanted_ to? There had to be more to it. She knew that he’d joined the Death Eaters their seventh year, but there was some question regarding whether he’d been forced. The general consensus was that he probably hadn’t had much stomach for any of it, because at the end of sixth year, he hadn’t been able to complete the dreadful task Voldemort had forced upon him -- he hadn’t killed Dumbledore. And he’d become increasingly withdrawn at school the following year when everything was gradually going straight to hell for all of them. She’d heard that from Neville and Luna and others. He hadn’t even been able to positively identify her and Harry to his father with any great conviction or relish before the final battle, even knowing that if he had done, he and his family would have got back into Voldemort’s good graces. There had seemed to be a reluctance, a hesitancy. She remembered that distinctly. She also remembered her amazement. Then again, he had tried to capture Harry and deliver him to Voldemort—but it had been a rather half-hearted attempt that had come to naught, ending with Harry saving his life. After that, until the prep classes had begun several months later, she had heard nothing of him. And then he had kept pretty much to himself that entire next year. He’d been a walking enigma.

Even now, he wasn’t offering anything more than a stock reply to her question, and something told her not to push.

“So then…” she began again. “What will you be reading?”

“History and English. You?”

“English too.” She pushed the last bit of cake around on her plate and then looked up at him again, smiling shyly. “I love literature!”

Draco laid his fork down, an answering smile briefly lighting his face.

“Me too,” he nodded. “I--”

He looked away for a moment, a faint flush colouring his cheeks.

“I suppose I may as well tell you. It’s been three years after all. What got me reading Muggle literature was… you. Well, not knowingly. But it all started when… well, when I borrowed one of your books.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Yeah, I… uh… it was in sixth year. You probably won’t remember this. You were in the library one night after dinner and I passed your table. You had a copy of **Lord of the Flies** along with a bunch of other books. The cover… it caught my eye. I was curious. So… well… I said something and then knocked some of your stuff off the table. And then, whilst you were collecting everything from the floor, I… uh… took it.” He shook his head, a tiny smile on his face as he recalled this.

The memory of a night years ago came back to Hermione too. She’d had a long evening studying in the library: a tedious Arithmancy assignment had kept her swamped with work for the better part of two hours, but she’d finally finished it.

As she was putting the final touches on her work, Malfoy had sauntered past, his two flunkies in tow. He’d stopped at her table and glanced down for a long moment, then casually rested his hand on her pile of books.

“Well, well, Granger. In your usual spot, I see. You _have_ read all of these at least twice tonight, have you not? No?” He clucked his tongue. “You disappoint me.”

And then his hand had moved, inscribing a casual arc as he swept most of her belongings off the table. He looked at her in mock horror.

“Oh! _So sorry._ Clumsy of me. It seems I’ve knocked your things to the floor.” And then he’d stood there, arms folded across his chest, waiting, the look of wide-eyed innocence on his face turning to a sardonic smile moments later.

Seething, biting back a righteous retort—It just wasn’t worth it! It was _Malfoy_ , after all! What else could one expect?-- Hermione had dropped into a crouch, silently retrieving all of her things. The ink bottle had rolled into a table leg and opened, and a swath of black was soaking into her newly finished Arithmancy homework. It was ruined. Unless there was a way she could clean it thoroughly enough, she would have to do it all over again.

It wasn’t until much later that she discovered her copy of **Lord of the Flies** had gone missing.

Now she looked at him and found that little smile of his suddenly infuriating.

“Think that was funny, do you, stealing my property? ‘Borrowed’ indeed!” she huffed. “I’ll have you know I nearly had to recopy an entire assignment because of you! Two hours’ work close to being ruined and all because you wanted my _book?_ ”

“I wasn’t smiling because of that. I was just thinking what a complete arse I’d been.”

Surprised but mollified, Hermione gave him a grudging smile. “Couldn’t you just have _asked_ to borrow it?” Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew how silly they were under the circumstances.

Draco snorted. “Not bloody likely. Not then. Can you picture that? _Me?_ Asking _you_ for something?”

She had to admit she couldn’t. “Well…after all that, did you like it, at least?”

Draco rocked back in his seat, gesturing expansively. “It was _brilliant!_ I’d never read anything like it! Scared the living shit out of me though. That scene with Simon…” He shuddered involuntarily, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I know!” Hermione nodded. “I cried. Poor Simon! What they did to him was so brutal! And mindless. They totally lost their humanity, didn’t they. It was horrifying!”

Draco toyed with the remainder of his cake, his expression somber. He appeared to be on the verge of saying more. Suddenly he glanced at his watch, his eyes widening, and jumped up.

“Oh, _shit!_ Sorry, Granger, must go! I’m about to be late!” His voice came back to her as he sprinted away. “See you!”

Hermione was left sitting there and feeling rather as if she’d just been caught up in a small, passing hurricane. A hurricane that had just treated her to coffee, cake, and conversation, and it had actually been not only civil, but pleasant. Enjoyable, even. Not to mention enlightening on more than one front. She had plenty of food for thought now, to accompany what was left of her coffee.

 

*

 

At a sprawling university with a population the size of Oxford’s, one might suppose that students could fade fairly easily into the venerable, old woodwork if they chose, that anonymity might be something of an issue even for those who didn’t seek it. In the short time Hermione had been here, this sense of isolation had proven both a blessing at times and a curse, as she struggled to find her own niche. She was about to discover that she wasn’t nearly as invisible as she had supposed.

Two days later, on her way to the library, Hermione had just stopped at the porter’s lodge at Hertford, her assigned college, to check the “pigeon holes” for any messages or mail. No mail—nothing much at all, really, except for an advert from Blackwell’s that she could see was in everyone’s pigeon hole. No, wait, hang on… there _was_ something…

Reaching in, she extracted a piece of blue stationery folded into a tiny, intricate shape that looked like a bird in flight. Carefully, she opened it. The handwriting was very neat and precise, the message to the point.

_Holywell staircase 5. Tonight, 8 pm. DM_

 

 

TBC

 

*Note added, 17 October 2011: This is the second time that life has imitated art in a wonderfully serendipitous way involving this story. (The other time involves Tom Felton and touches on a part of this story far in advance of this first chapter, so no spoilers from me!) Today was Emma Watson’s first day as a student at Oxford, where she will be studying for a year before returning to Brown. Not only that, but she will be reading English at Oxford, just like Hermione! I couldn’t resist including a photo of her taken today, as she begins her studies there.

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=emmawatsonoxford.jpg)  
Hermione on the first day of Michaelmas term, Oxford

 

Glossary:

Blackwell’s—the bookshop students at Oxford frequent.

Porter’s lodge—each college at Oxford has a porter’s lodge at the entrance. Students nowadays have keys to get in, but in the past, that wasn’t the case. It helped to be friends with the porter if you were out very late at night!

Pigeon holes—each college has what are known as “pigeon holes” in the area of the porter’s lodge, where mail and notes from friends are delivered for each student. The inter-campus “pigeon post” delivers such notes.

The system at Oxford is different to that of American universities and even that of most English ones, except for Cambridge. In the case of Draco's chosen area of study, it is not precisely what we in the States would call a "double major." "History and English" is a specific, established degree program with requirements in both departments.

 

And now a tour of Oxford and specifically, Hertford College:

 

  
  
View of Hertford College and the Bridge of Sighs from Catte Street

 

The Bridge of Sighs:

 

  
  


 

  
  
Overhead view of Catte Street and Hertford College, photo by Stuart Yeates

 

Hertford College Quad:

 

  
  


 

  
  


 

  
  
The Chapel, Hertford College

 

  
  
Punts on the Thames, Oxford


	2. Crossing the Gulf

 

 _Staircase 5!_

Hermione stood stock still. This note could mean only one thing: not only was Malfoy a student at Oxford, but he’d been placed in Hertford, the very same college as she— and so, not surprisingly, in Holywell Quad as well, where all first-years were housed. Either this was an utterly bizarre coincidence or strings had been pulled. As far as she was aware, they were the only two from the prep class at Hogwarts to have been admitted to this university. It would stand to reason that they’d be placed together to help make the transition easier for both of them, the fact that she’d been raised a Muggle notwithstanding. She was willing to bet that wherever more than one Hogwarts student had been accepted, there would have been a special request to house them together.

She glanced at her watch. 5:30. Enough time to have some dinner and do a bit of reading before… Butterflies flitted through her stomach momentarily as she slipped the folded paper into her pocket.

The next two hours crawled by. If there were a Guinness World’s Record for the number of times one looked at a wristwatch within a certain time span, Hermione was certain she’d already beaten it by a mile.

Dinner might as well have been sawdust. She wasn’t even sure what she was eating, just that it was there on the plate, and it was green and brown and rather ghastly.

Retreating to her room at Staircase 2, she made certain that both the inner door and the outer one were firmly shut. Then she flopped down on her bed, burying her face in the pillows. The butterflies in her stomach had grown into Thestrals, and now there was an entire herd of them rampaging through. She clutched a pillow to her stomach to quell her nerves.

Really, this was silly. What had she to be nervous about, after all? It was just Malfoy. _Just Malfoy…_

She’d had every intention of reading, but her book remained untouched in her lap as she snuggled back against the comfy armchair pillow, thinking. What in Merlin’s name could he possibly want? They’d had a nice time at the café, granted, but he was probably just being polite in asking her along—fellow Hogwarts student, somebody familiar from their world, and she’d been sitting right there, he couldn’t exactly ignore her, could he—although, come to think of it, when had Malfoy ever been polite because it was the right thing to do? Such an idea went against eight years of experience, against everything she knew of him since the age of eleven.

So… if he weren’t simply being polite, then… No, that was ridiculous! The very idea… he couldn’t possibly…

She turned resolutely to her assignment: Dante’s _Divine Comedy_. But productive reading was not on the cards for tonight, apparently, because the next thing Hermione knew, she was waking from a nap and the bedside clock read a baleful 7:40 pm.

She stared fuzzily at the display for one frozen moment and then shot off the bed, galvanised into panicked action. What was she going to _wear? Stupid, stupid, it doesn’t matter, what’s the difference, it’s not as if it’s a_ date _or anything! Yes, but_ still. _Right, the red one or the teal?_ She kept up the internal debate as she hurriedly scavenged through her drawers to find the right top and then the right jeans. _Or what about that cute little denim skirt with the embroidery on the back pocket… Perfect!_

 _Teal top with the three-quarter sleeves, first three buttons left undone. Good._ Her cheeks pinking up, she bit back a giggle at her own daring. _Denim skirt, black Capri leggings, black ballet flats. Yes. Silver hoops. Check._ A quick sweep of mascara, just a hint of blush and a drop of raspberry lip gloss for shine. She assessed herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and nodded.

Now—what to do about her hair! She tugged at it impatiently, wishing for the thousandth time that it was sleek and straight as a pin instead of the unruly mass of waves and ringlets she had to try and tame every single morning. Half up and half down? No, that made her look as if part of her head were exploding. She tried scrunching the waves with dampened fingers and that was okay, she supposed, but not wonderful. Finally, frustrated, impatient, and out of time, she twisted it into a messy bun, a few errant tendrils escaping here and there, and took one final look at herself. It would have to do.

Running her hands down her sides, she took a breath, turned and walked out the door, heading out to the quad to find the separate entrance for Staircase 5.

There it was, the wooden doorway framed all around in thick trails of ivy. Now—which floor out of the four? Quickly she scanned the board with all the nameplates. Ah. Malfoy, D. Room 12. Right, ground floor for the lecturer’s rooms and then three more floors, four rooms to a floor. That would make it the third floor.

By the time she got there, it was 8:07 pm. Draco stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for her. He pointedly tapped the face of his wristwatch.

“Late! I expected better of you, Granger,” he sighed, shaking his head in an amused reproach. “Come in.”

Pushing open the two doors, he beckoned her inside and then followed, making sure to shut them both behind him.

Like her own, his room was small. The furnishings were… minimalist, Hermione decided. Practically spartan, in fact. The bed was decorated with a simple, navy-blue duvet and a pair of soft pillows. The desk was extraordinarily neat and spare-looking—just a lamp, a blotter, a mug filled with pens and pencils, a phone, a laptop and a printer, which they’d learned to use in their prep class. A cork board was on the wall above it, but thus far, it was empty. A wardrobe stood in one corner. Apart from that, there was a chest of drawers, its top bare except for a brush, comb and shaving kit. The one exception to the overall asceticism of the room was the bookcase, which was crammed. Intrigued, Hermione made a mental note to have a closer look at his books later.

The only wall decoration was a poster above the bed, depicting a thin shingle of beach below an endless vista of sea and sky that shimmered in shades of pale blue, ivory, beige and a hint of lavender.

Draco had noticed her staring at the poster. “Like it?” he asked. “It’s a Wolf Kahn.”

“Who?” Hermione asked, feeling suddenly very ignorant. Clearly, Malfoy knew something about Muggle art, yet another surprise.

“Wolf Kahn. He’s an American painter. Does these nature scenes that are very nearly abstract, but you can still tell what it is he’s painting.” He regarded the print for a long moment and then turned back to Hermione. “How does it make you feel when you look at it?” The expression in his eyes was completely without guile and genuinely curious.

“Well… ” she began, studying the picture for a moment, “what I like about it is… the sea and the sky seem to blend together. You almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. It’s all one. It makes me feel… calm.”

“Right!” Draco said excitedly. “That’s it exactly! That’s the whole point. Makes me feel that way too. Sometimes… ”

He paused.

“Sometimes… ?” Hermione repeated.

“Well, it’s just… sometimes I’d like to just disappear into the picture, that’s all.” Draco gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Stupid, really!”

“No, it isn’t the least bit stupid. I know exactly what you mean. It would be lovely to be on that tranquil beach,” she said softly, nodding. For a very brief moment, there was real warmth in his eyes as he looked at her, and then the moment was over and an awkward pause took its place.

Then he brightened.

“Would you like something? Coffee, maybe, or tea? Hang on—” He grinned suddenly. “I’ve got something really good!” He disappeared for a moment and then returned with a slender-necked bottle of crimson liquid, a small, plastic jug of chilled Perrier, two slices of lemon and a packet of shortbread. “Elderberry wine. I like it with a twist of lemon and a little bit of sparkling water.” He pulled out the cork and poured some wine into a pair of glasses he’d fetched from the larger desk drawer. Adding just a splash of Perrier and the lemon slice, he handed one glass to Hermione along with the plate of shortbread. “These are very good too. Try one.”

“Thank you!” Hermione smiled and took a small bite of shortbread, followed by a sip of the wine. It was really quite nice, very refreshing. “Mmm, lovely!”

Suddenly Draco seemed to notice that she was still standing.

“Please,” he said apologetically. “Sit!”

And then, as Hermione went to sit down at the end of the bed, he moved to pull out his desk chair for her, and the two of them collided.

“Sorry!” they said together, stepping back, and Hermione blushed.

“Thanks,” she added sheepishly, sitting down in the chair while he perched on the bed.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, enjoying their wine and biscuits. By the time her glass was empty, she still had no idea why he’d asked her to come, and he didn’t seem in any hurry to tell her.

He seemed to sense the question in her mind. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here. More wine?”

Hermione nodded absently. “Yes, thanks.” She held out her glass, and he refilled it along with his own, topping them up with a little of the effervescent water.

“I can’t deny I was surprised to get your note.” She brushed a loose tendril of hair out of her eyes and smiled. “So—how come?”

“Well,” he replied, setting his glass down and going to the bookcase. “I thought I ought to give this back to you.” He pulled a paperback book off a high shelf and turned. “Sorry for pinching it. Here.” He held out his hand.

In it was her copy of **Lord of the Flies**. It had been relatively new when he’d taken it. But now it had the appearance of a book that had been read too many times to count. The cover was bent at the corners, and there was a distinct crease bisecting the centre. Tops of some pages were turned down slightly.

Hermione moved to take the book but then stopped, retracting her hand.

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s yours now. Keep it.”

Draco stared at her for a moment and then sat down on the edge of the bed, the book still in his hand, gently running his fingertips over the crease.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s meant a lot to me these last three years, you know.”

“No, I don’t know, not really. Why don’t you tell me?” Curiosity had got the better of her, and the wine had relaxed her natural reserve.

His face was slightly flushed as he leaned back against the pillows, resting his wine glass against the top of one bent knee. Silence hung between them for just a moment before he began to speak.

“The first time I read it, I didn’t really get what Golding was doing. It seemed to me that Jack and Roger were right to insist on hunting and running things. They were strong, and they were natural leaders, and most everyone fell into line behind them. No matter what. They knew if they didn’t hunt, they would starve. It seemed to me that whatever they had to do was justified. Ralph and Piggy just seemed weak and foolish and not able to deal with the reality of the situation they were in. And I thought that Simon was stupid for crashing out of the woods the way he did. Of _course_ they were going to mistake him for a wild beast and attack him! He ought to have known better!”

He spoke to her, but at the same time, seemed oddly unaware of her presence now, almost as if he were conducting a monologue in her earshot. His eyes flicked over her briefly as he tossed back the dregs of his second glass.

“Several months later, I… well, you probably know about the cabinet. And all the rest too. I didn’t… I didn’t want to do it, you know. But I was given no choice. Voldemort was going to hurt my family if I failed. I wanted to blot out what I was doing whenever and however I could. So I read. A lot. Whatever I could get my hands on. Anything to escape my own head for a while. I found myself drawn back to this book.”

He closed his eyes for a minute, remembering.

“When I read it again, what Jack and Roger were doing seemed… I don’t know… just _wrong_ , somehow. Childish. They were playing at being tough warriors, but they were _kids_. They were in over their heads. They couldn’t control it anymore. None of them could. And nobody was listening anymore. Nobody was _thinking_. They just _followed_. I knew what that felt like. It’s as if they weren’t human anymore; they were like animals, except animals are better than that. Animals aren’t deliberately cruel like people can be.

“I was scared _shitless_ , Granger. I felt like I was losing myself a little more every day. I felt like Simon. Except that he had no clue what he was walking into. I knew. I fucking _knew._ ”

He sighed explosively and covered his eyes, momentarily a bit dizzy. Hermione’s own eyes had filled with tears. She turned away, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

There was more, though, and there was no stopping it now.

“Have you any idea what it feels like to be trapped that way? Chained to a fucking psycho! But the scariest thing was how nobody seemed to question any of it. Me, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, Parkinson, Nott… we all just bought into it, swallowed all that shite with a bloody please and thank you.” He sat up and looked at her, his face blotchy and his eyes red. “We were being _played_ , Granger. And I don’t know about anybody else, but I was scared out of my fucking mind!”

He was hunched over now, his face in his hands. She could hear him taking gulps of air to steady himself. Impulsively, she sat down next to him on the bed, reaching a hesitant hand out to rub slow, gentle circles on his back. Finally, he raised his head and looked at her.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t need to hear all that.” He swallowed hard, looking away again. What the bloody hell had just come over him, spilling like that? He hadn’t intended the evening to go like _this_.

“No, no, it’s okay. Really! I’m glad you told me.” Hermione shook her head, blinking back a stray tear. She paused and then added softly, “I understand.”

Her hand was still warm on his back when he turned his head. His eyes were huge and very dark as they regarded her, never breaking contact; she knew, suddenly, that he was going to kiss her, and what’s more, that she was going to let him.

His mouth was soft and cool and sweet like rain, his kiss gentle and fleeting, light as a moth’s wing. And then he sighed and put his arms around her, drawing her close and resting his forehead against hers.

“Stay with me for a while,” he whispered against her skin. He felt so very _tired_ all of a sudden. “Please. I… I don’t want to be alone.”

“All right,” she said quietly.

Slowly, carefully, they lay down together on his narrow bed, Draco on his side and Hermione curled around him, her arm looped about his waist. He twined his fingers in hers, and she could feel his shuddering breaths gradually slowing and steadying and falling into a regular rhythm. His sleep was fitful, and he would wake many times before morning, always finding her hand again before dropping back off.

She lay awake for a long time as he slept, and then she finally slept too, her dreams haunted by images of him with Ralph, Piggy, Jack, and poor, sad, lost Simon.

 

*

 

At 5:45 am, Hermione awoke and for a moment, had no idea where she was.

She was fully dressed, her shirt rumpled and her skirt hiked up; she had a headache and the world’s worst taste in her dry mouth—and her arm was wrapped firmly around Draco Malfoy, of all people. His arm was flung over hers, her hand sandwiched between both of his and his fingertips moving lightly on her skin as he slept.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, and then, “Malfoy!”

When she got no response, she tried again. “ _Draco!_ ”

She knew he’d awakened because for just a second, his hands tightened convulsively around hers. He rolled over to face her, his eyes widening in momentary surprise. Then he remembered.

“Hey,” he whispered. His head felt terribly heavy and his eyes began to slide shut once again.

“Hey.” Her voice was soft. “It’s morning.”

“I know,” he murmured, burrowing into his pillow. A sleepy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Fancy that.”

“Shall… shall we get up, then?” Hermione suddenly felt very awkward indeed.

Draco opened his eyes, raising himself up on one elbow to look at her. “I don’t know about you, Granger, but 5:45 in the morning is not what I call a civilised hour for human beings to be awake. Go back to sleep!” He flopped back onto his pillow and with a muffled groan, rolled over again.

Hermione was utterly nonplussed. Good job she wasn’t a betting person because the odds of finding herself in this particular situation with this particular person were long, to say the least.

A small giggle bubbled up and burst out of her. Just as her eyes were closing again, she heard laughter, soft and husky, in reply.

 

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks, hugs, and bouquets of flowers to my trio of marvelous and devoted betas, whom I’m proud to call my friends as well: kazfeist, floorcoaster, and mister_otter. You guys are the best, bar none!
> 
>  
> 
> What we in the US refer to as the “first” floor of a building is known as the “ground” floor in Britain. Therefore, Draco’s room at Hertford is on the fourth floor for Americans, but the third for Brits.
> 
>  
> 
> In the oldest Oxford colleges, there are two doors for every student’s room, an outer and an inner door. If you want privacy, you make sure both are shut. If you don’t mind people stopping in, you leave the outer door open and just close the inner one.
> 
>  
> 
> The poster that Draco has hung on the wall above his bed is a print of Wolf Kahn’s “The Gulf,” painted in 1998.


	3. Dragons, Trolls, Serpents and Swordplay

 

Thankfully, things hadn’t been nearly as strange as they might have been when, an hour and fifteen minutes later, the alarm clock went off, jolting the two of them out of the heavy sleep they’d finally dropped into after such a restless night. Nevertheless, it had been awkward.

They’d been stiff and achy, and in sore need of a shower, a toothbrush, and a fresh change of clothes. Hermione had flown around the room collecting her shoes, shoulder bag and jacket, and had been on the verge of running out the door when she noticed Draco standing by the desk, quietly watching her, a bemused smile on his face. He held out a mug of instant coffee he’d just made with water from a small electric kettle.

“Here. Sorry I haven’t any milk at the moment.”

Gratefully, she’d taken the steaming mug from him and together, they’d sipped their coffee in silence, neither of them quite sure what to say or where to look.

The coffee finished, Hermione had picked up her things once again and turned to go. What did one say under such circumstances? She hadn’t stayed over as a girlfriend, but neither had it been entirely platonic. She wasn’t sure _what_ it had been, really, or what he expected of her now. In the end, she’d simply stuck out her hand and he’d taken it, giving it a brief squeeze.

“See you later?” she’d asked, hefting her over-sized hobo bag onto her shoulder.

Their Mediaeval Lit lecture was that morning at ten. He’d nodded and a moment later, she was gone.

 

*

 

Draco sank down on his bed, then, the mug of coffee in his hands momentarily forgotten as he reflected on the past twelve hours.

 _Buggering hell_. What had he _done?_ Acted like a total wanker, that’s what. Said things he’d never meant to say, to the last girl on earth he’d ever meant to say them. What must she _think?_ That he was a sniveling, whinging, pathetic little twat who couldn’t stop himself laying his heart bare after only two glasses of wine!

And he’d had such a different evening in mind too. It had been quite an inspired idea, really—the return of her book. Not that he hadn’t been sincere in his intention to give it back, but what a perfect reason to invite her over in the first place! And then, once she was here, he’d offer her something to drink in order to break the ice, give her the book, and then trust to luck for the rest. He’d sent her the note on an impulse, shoving it into her “pigeon hole” before he’d had a chance to change his mind.

Merlin, he’d only been fantasising about her since bloody fourth year and the Yule Ball! No—even longer than that, if he were going to be honest with himself. But until now -- until this place -- he’d never felt truly free to do anything about it.

And now he’d made a right bollocks of everything. She’d never want to see him now.

Miserably, he slammed the mug down on the desk, lukewarm coffee slopping over the rim onto the blotter.

“ _FUCK!_ ” he muttered, and gave the leg of the desk a vicious kick.

Meanwhile, in the dining hall under the watchful eyes of all the old masters’ portraits, Hermione was having thoughts of her own about the previous evening. She sipped her orange juice and methodically put forkfuls of scrambled egg and bacon into her mouth, but her mind was a million miles away—or rather, across the quad… in room 12, Staircase 5.

More than anything, she was still stunned that he’d opened himself up the way he had. She hadn’t expected such candour, and it was shocking. She wondered how he must be feeling about his revelations now, the morning after. Did he regret them? He must do—any bloke would, she supposed. All that male ego rubbish. She smiled ruefully. Malfoy would probably feel that even more than most. For all she knew, he might even be hating himself now for taking her into his confidence in a moment of wine-induced weakness. The possibility of that made her heart sink a bit. But then her thoughts turned back to what he’d actually _said._ Even now, she was amazed whenever she replayed his words in her head:

 _Scared shitless… we were being played… fucking psycho… nobody was thinking… didn’t want to… losing myself… SCARED…_

He’d been through far more than she’d ever imagined. Her ordeal whilst on the run with Harry and Ron was only a different sort to Draco’s back at school, but it was no greater. She imagined that in some respects, his during sixth and seventh years was far worse than anything she’d experienced, because it was an inexorable torture that gradually ate away at his insides, tearing him apart without relief or escape. And he’d borne it in near silence and all alone.

A surge of horror and pity closed Hermione’s throat, tears pricking at her lashes. Her heart went out to him, even though she’d only just come to know the smallest part of who he was now. Suddenly, she had a strong desire to see him again. There was apparently far more to him than she could have guessed from the arrogant, disdainful, public face he’d always worn in the past.

And yes, that was it, wasn’t it! She hadn’t been able to quite put her finger on it before, but there was something different about him, and now she knew what it was. He didn’t wear _that_ face _here_ , at least not that she’d seen. It was almost as if, in coming to Oxford, he’d shed an old skin, leaving the blackened, ugly one behind.

If Hermione had been intrigued and curious before, now she was doubly so. She realised that she very much wanted to get to know this new Draco Malfoy. One way or another, she’d find a way to make that happen.

 

*

 

“…Your essays will be due at the end of term. I need not remind you that strictest adherence to proper documentation procedures is required and the consequences will be severe if anything unorthodox or improper is discovered. I will expect a well-written précis describing your project ideas by Thursday next.”

Their tutor, Mr. Allen, gathered his papers and notes, bringing them together in a neat pile and depositing them in a folder. “Very well. If you will excuse me, I have another appointment I’m already slightly late for.” He nodded formally. “Good day, Mr. Malfoy… Ms. Granger.”

They stood politely, waiting as he collected his things, and then walked out of his rooms ahead of him, turning to watch as he locked the door and then took his leave, his coattails flapping behind him.

“Remind you of anyone?” said a dryly amused voice in Hermione’s ear.

She turned her head slightly and grinned. “Oh, no… can’t imagine who you mean…” And then her voice and the grin died away, as the memory of Severus Snape’s death came back to her.

It was just a few months more than a year now. He had made a sacrifice beyond anyone’s knowledge or imagining, with the exception of Albus Dumbledore, whose own sacrifice-- and Snape’s part in it-- had been unknown until the very end of the war. It was so very difficult to imagine the two of them—and Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Tonks, Fred Weasley, Dobby, and so many others—dead and gone. But they were.

Hermione shook herself and turned to face Draco, whose own expression had sobered when he realised what he’d inadvertently said.

“I miss him,” he murmured. “I know he was something of a bastard to you and Potter and Weasley, all you lot, but he was important to me. He was … well… he was a friend.” _More than you can possibly know._

There was a well of pain in his eyes that he quickly turned away to hide, and when he faced her once again, his face was composed. “Any idea what you might be doing for your project?” he asked with studied casualness.

“Nope, not yet,” Hermione replied, keeping her own tone light as she stuffed her note cards into her bag. “I need to look the question over again.” Suddenly, an idea occurred to her and on impulse, she blurted it out. “Look, um… I was just thinking… what would you say to us working together on this thing? I mean,” she rushed on, not wanting to give him a chance to turn her down. “You know, the question does have an historical slant as well as a literary one. That’s one of your areas, history, and between us, I bet we could do a really good job! What do you think?”

She chanced a look at him now, hoping to gauge his reaction. His expression was thoughtful as he considered her suggestion. Hermione waited, busying herself with poking around in her rucksack. She hoped she didn’t look _too_ eager.

“Well… okay,” he said slowly, nodding. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve worked together…” He turned to Hermione, a sly grin quirking his mouth. “Though the last time, I believe I remember a certain ingredient of mine, a rather slimy one, going missing at a key stage in our potion and later winding up on my shoes.” He paused. “Would you happen to recall that little incident?”

Hermione flushed and tried not to laugh. “Me?” she asked with exaggerated innocence. “You must be thinking of somebody else, Malfoy. Why ever would I do that to you?”

“Oh, possibly because twenty minutes earlier I had slipped a bit of powdered Hellebore in your sample of the potion and you disappeared completely for five minutes just as Snape was about to question you on your work.” His lazy grin held just a ghost of the old malicious glee as he recalled that particular class.

“Yes, and you might also remember I reappeared just in time to hear him take fifty points from my house to teach me a lesson about pranks! _Me!_ ”

Draco laughed, a real, full-out laugh that came from his belly.

“Well, at least you missed the rant the rest of us were subjected to because of your sudden absence!”

“Not that YOU minded, of course, seeing as you caused it!” she huffed, trying to be irate and failing miserably.

“True, true, I must admit to taking a certain pleasure in a job well done. By the way, Granger--” He paused as they neared the exit door which would take them out into the sunlit quad, and looked at her, utterly straight-faced, his voice low. “I’ve always wondered—what does it feel like to be totally invisible?”

Laughing, Hermione gave him a playful cuff on the arm as they walked out into the October sunshine. “The truth? A bit creepy, if you must know! Thanks for that singular experience, Malfoy!”

Draco grinned. “Pleasure. And… I suppose that was you tripping me as I was going to the supply closet? To thank me for all those new sensations?”

Hermione shrugged, a teasing smile in her eyes. “Well… it seemed the very least I could do in return!”

They’d stopped directly under the graceful, over-arching Bridge of Sighs, an oasis of deep shade on the sun-filled street. Hermione’s heavy rucksack had begun sliding down her arm and she struggled to hoist it back into place on her shoulder. Without thinking, Draco reached out to help.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“S’okay,” he replied, suddenly absorbed in the sight of a bird perched on the wrought-iron gate leading out of Hertford College and into the street beyond.

“Well,” Hermione began, “I suppose we ought to put together a schedule of regular meetings so we can stay on top of this assignment.”

“Right,” Draco agreed, his attention back on her now that those mutinously chivalrous urges had passed. He considered for a moment. “A one-off won’t do it. We’ll need to spend quite a lot of time together, researching and then writing.”

“But first we need to choose the primary work we want to write about. Are you free later this afternoon? Say, around four?”

He nodded. “Where?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “My room,” she said firmly. “Holywell of course, Staircase 2, room number five. Four o’clock, then. See you!” She flashed him a quick smile and turned, hurrying away into Catte Street, her smile growing with every step.

Still standing under the arch of the bridge, Draco watched her go, and gradually a tiny smile of his own appeared.

Four o’clock then.

 

*

 

That afternoon, 3:55 pm

 

Draco climbed the stairs, his satchel lightly packed with pens and a small spiral notebook. He found he preferred note-taking by hand to using his laptop, reserving that for writing the actual assignments. He was still rather slow and clumsy with the keys. More than that, he found that he missed the grace and elegance of a quill, but he was determined not to approach this university experience halfway. It was important – no, _necessary_ \-- to fully immerse himself in the traditional life of the university and do it without magic, that his time here represent a complete break with his other life. It was in large part why he had chosen to come.

Second floor. Right, okay. Now… room five… ah, there. The outer door stood open, an invitation without the need for words.

Just as he raised his hand to knock on the inner door, it opened.

Hermione stood there, a shy smile on her face. “Hi. Please… come in,” she said, gesturing. “I… um… thought we might get hungry whilst working. I hope you like cheese!”

Behind her on the desk, there was a sturdy paper plate with two fresh cheeses and a pair of small knives. Fanned out around the cheeses was an assortment of biscuits. Beside it there was another paper plate, this one filled with sliced apples and grapes artfully arranged.

“Oh, and... I brought us some special coffee from the Rose. I hope you like café mocha. I’ve just warmed them up. Thought we might need something to keep us going. This could take a while.” A pair of tall, white, porcelain coffee cups waited on the desk. She slanted a quick look at Draco and found him looking faintly incredulous.

She had shopped-- had gone out of her way-- for _him._

“You didn’t have to do this,” he began and then saw the beginnings of a crestfallen expression on her face. “But it’s… it’s _great_. Thanks, Granger-- really!”

Hermione relaxed into a smile and beckoned him to sit. Now, for the first time, he had a really good look around her room. Structurally, it was much the same as his own. Bed, desk, chest of drawers, wardrobe, sink, window looking out on the quad. But where his room was spare and plain, hers was alive with pieces of herself everywhere one looked. Her corkboard above the desk was crammed with notes to herself, clipped articles, photos—Muggle and therefore non-moving, of course— and saved ticket stubs. A cheery bedspread and throw pillows made her bed an inviting place, and a soft rug invited luxuriating with bare feet. There was a folding butterfly chair next to the desk, near the lamp. On all four walls, posters had been hung, but hers were mostly prints of lush Impressionist paintings. She favoured Monet’s garden paintings most of all; there were two depicting his garden at Giverny and another pair from the Waterlilies series. Altogether, it gave her room the feel of a garden at the height of summer—tranquil, but yet very vibrantly alive. It reminded him powerfully of his mother’s garden at the Manor, and suddenly he missed her very much.

“Please…” she said quickly, and indicated the fruit, cheese and biscuits. “Help yourself. Coffee?”

 

*

 

Hermione sat in the butterfly chair, one leg draped over the side. A notebook was in her lap, and Draco noticed that now she was chewing absently on the end of her pen just as she had always done with her quills.

“Right,” she muttered, looking at her notes. “We’re supposed to choose one major work that falls within the time frame we’re studying and discuss its significance, both to its own time and to contemporary readers, culturally, intellectually, religiously, and socially. Oh, plus its importance to modern scholars as an historical document. In other words, both a literary and an historical analysis. That’s the general gist of what Allen wants.”

“Not _too_ bloody much to deal with, is it!” Draco snorted, shaking his head. “Holy shit, Granger, could he possibly have made the topic any broader, do you suppose?”

Hermione laughed ruefully. “Probably using us for the preliminary research for a book or something! Don’t forget, we’ll have to narrow it down to something far more specific within that context.”

“Right.” Draco set his mouth in a determined line. “Well, let’s get cracking then.”

 

*

 

An hour later, the cheeses, a creamy Brie and a Stilton, had been decimated. Only a few biscuits remained amidst the scattered crumbs. Four apple slices and seven grapes sat forlornly on their paper plate.

Hermione and Draco had managed to narrow their choices down to two possibilities after slogging through a long list of suggested readings and secondary sources attached to the course syllabus. It would either be “Gawain and the Green Knight” or “Beowulf.”

Taking his turn lounging in the butterfly chair, Draco had been arguing vociferously in favour of “Beowulf” for the past ten minutes.

“Come on, Granger! It’ll be _loads_ more fun! Dragons, trolls, serpents, swordplay, lots of blood and gore!” He laughed.

“Oh, you!” Hermione giggled. “I’m positive you’d like ‘Gawain’! Hey, there’s a really good beheading in it! Oh, and what about that knight who’s all over green? He’s definitely magical.”

Draco reached for a grape and tossed it into the air, deftly catching it in his mouth.

“Look,” he said, chewing, “I think I probably would like it, actually. But Old Norse mythology really interests me, and early Scandinavian paganism and the Vikings and their influences and all. Ever since I read Tolkien, really.”

Hermione looked up, startled. “You know Tolkien?”

Draco popped another grape into his mouth and nodded. “I read everything of his that I could get my hands on, starting a couple of years ago. Had to sneak the books in at home during the summers and hide them. My father would not have approved. But they… they kept me going. Pure escapism at first, but it turned into a lot more.” He glanced over at Hermione briefly. “Tolkien’s part of the reason I wanted to come to Oxford, you know.”

“Because he taught here, you mean?”

Draco nodded again. “Yes. Imagine! Right here! For many years. C.S. Lewis too. They were mates as well as colleagues, used to hang out at one of the pubs--”

“The Eagle and Child.”

“Otherwise known as The Bird and Baby, yes. Every Tuesday, I think it was. With a bunch of other dons who wrote as well. Mostly fantasy, I believe. I read that E.R. Eddison used to join them sometimes.”

“The Inklings—yes, I know! I love it that these amazing writers were actually here and were friends and talked about writing and read their stuff to each other. Really, how exciting is that!” Hermione rocked back on the bed, hugging her knees.

They grinned at each other, both caught up in the pure pleasure of the idea.

“So—‘Beowulf,’ then? _Right?_ ” He winked at her.

She let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. “‘Okay, okay, Malfoy, I give up! ‘Beowulf’!”

He smiled to himself, and then said briskly, “Right, so what’s next then? Got a copy to hand? Or do you need to buy one?”

“Got one, thanks. I assume you do as well?”

“ _Naturally_ , Granger. But we’ll need to use the same edition—or better yet, let’s have two or three in front of us, and then we can compare the way language is used in the translations. Let’s go to Blackwell’s tomorrow and see what we can find.”

Hermione nodded distractedly, momentarily brought up short as she listened to Draco. As much as she understood intellectually how it was that he came to be here, and she knew, at least in part, how he had prepared to study here, it was all beginning to seem rather surreal: his being here at all, his ease with the transition to living in the Muggle world, his knowledge of and facility with Muggle literature—the lot. He continued to surprise and intrigue her.

“Draco,” she said quietly, “I was wondering… what you said before… you know… about sneaking books into your house and your father not approving… What was that like?”

His stomach clenched into a small knot. He hadn’t been expecting that question. In fact, after last night, he’d rather hoped to avoid any real mention of the past and all it had contained for him. But he’d slipped again and now she was asking, and that meant he had to deal with it somehow.

He stood and stretched and then walked to the window, peering out. It was close to six now, and the sun had just set. He shivered slightly. It would be Samhain in only a week and a half. He continued to gaze out the window at the blackening night.

“It was… depressing. That first summer when I began reading outside of acceptable wizarding books, sixth year had just ended.”

Instantly, the death of Dumbledore flashed through her mind and she knew that was the unspoken but vital factor of this conversation.

“I went home—well, Snape brought me home, really. And basically I was under house arrest. Not literally, you understand -- but I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere or see anybody. My mother was frantic to protect me. My father—well, he wasn’t there. As you know.”

Hermione nodded. “But… how did you stand being so cooped up all the time?”

Draco smiled faintly. “I managed to sneak out of the house a few times that summer, and I went down into the village just to walk around a bit. Funny, I hadn’t been there more than a handful of times before that. There’s a very old wizarding pub hidden away there. The White Hart, it’s called. I’d heard Father mention it in passing and I’d known for years that he and his cronies went there now and then.”

“Did you go there? You were of age by then. You were seventeen.” Hermione sat, her arms wrapped round her knees, listening intently.

“Yeah. I’d been a couple of times before that as well. Over the winter hols in sixth year. Got myself properly shitfaced. Reckon I thought that would make it all go away.” Draco raised his eyes for a quick, tentative glance at Hermione. She nodded slightly, her own eyes large.

He sighed and continued. “After the war, well… Father was relieved I hadn’t died, I suppose, but… once again, I had the feeling I’d failed him. He barely spoke to me the entire summer. The look in his eyes whenever he saw me… well…” Draco suppressed a shudder. “It would have made things that much worse if he’d found me with Muggle books. He would not have understood.

“Anyway, by the end of sixth year, I’d already read **The Hobbit**. Did you know there are copies of all his works in the library at Hogwarts? Seems there’s a lot of speculation that Tolkien was a closeted wizard. And even if he wasn’t, he portrayed our world in a very favourable and respectful light, so his books are there, though I had to hunt for them. And… well… you weren’t the only one I nicked a book from…”

The implicit meaning of his words suddenly struck Hermione and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Malfoy, you _didn’t!_ ”

Draco smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I did. Not all at once, of course. Madame Pince never even missed them.”

“ _Them?_ ”

“Think, Granger. I couldn’t very well take only one and not the other two, now could I? Anyway,” he went on, turning away from the window and sitting down opposite her on the bed, “I spent the whole summer after sixth year in Middle-earth. You’ve read it, haven’t you?”

Hermione nodded somberly.

“Then you understand the irony of it. Could I possibly have chosen anything more appropriate, do you suppose?” He laughed, but it was a mirthless sound. “The parallels were uncanny. For me, it was a lesson in what to get away from as far and as fast as possible. Except I couldn’t. I _couldn’t_. And there was fuck-all I could do about it.”

Hermione had listened quietly, nodding her head from time to time. What he was telling her was appalling, a very human story from somebody to whom she had spent years denying any real humanity. Of course, she reasoned, that hadn’t been her fault, really—to a large extent, she’d only responded to what she’d seen. But then, she’d never given too much thought to what might have been behind the exterior, not until sixth year, and even then, only briefly. A pang struck her as she remembered hearing about the distraught boy weeping in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

“Oh, Draco,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” And she was, but not just for the fear and isolation she now knew he must have experienced. She was sorry, so sorry, for not stopping a moment longer, three years before, to really consider why that boy might have been weeping.

He looked intently at her. “Are you?” he asked softly.

She nodded, unable to say anything.

Powerful twin urges suddenly swept over him—one, to take her hand and just hold onto it and not let go, and the other, to remove himself from this scrutiny altogether. He found himself curiously touched by her compassion, but the intensity of it was a bit scary too. This was the very stuff he’d wanted so desperately to get away from, and now, here he was, with the very girl with whom he’d had such a history of mutual antagonism, drawn right back in somehow and finding himself blathering away about it. _Again._ And why her? None of this made any sense!

Heaving himself off the bed, he made a show of looking at his watch.

“Merlin, will you look at the time! Better get going, studying to do!” Swiftly, he gathered his books, dumping them into his bag, and then walked back to the bed where she still sat. Because, well, he couldn’t just _leave._

“See you tomorrow? We’ll go to Blackwell’s, yeah?”

She nodded, her smile belied by the confusion and disappointment in her eyes.

He hesitated just a fraction of a second, and then, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head, he disappeared out the door, leaving Hermione to wonder what had just happened. She racked her brain. Had she done something wrong? Was it something she’d said?

Outside, a lone figure yanked the hood of his fleece pullover over his pale hair and shoved his hands in the front pocket as he looked up at the window he knew was hers, bright against the dark, ivied facade of the old building.

 

“ _Bugger!_ ”

 

 

TBC

 

You’ve seen what Draco has put up on his wall. Here are Hermione’s Monet posters:

 

  
“Waterlilies”

 

  
“Waterlilies”

 

  
“Japanese Bridge”

 

  
“The Garden in Flowers”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks and bunches of summer flowers to my wonderful betas-- mister_otter, kazfeist, and floorcoaster, for their careful and thorough reads and very helpful feedback! *Hugs to all!*
> 
> Many thanks and a perpetual stash of Godiva Dark Chocolate Pearls to moonjameskitten, who has gifted me with yet another brilliant and beautiful banner that is so very right for this story, it’s just uncanny! I love its ethereal quality!
> 
> Ongoing thanks to everyone at HP Britglish who has helped me so much! You guys are absolutely wonderful, a treasure trove of fantastic information, including some really great minutiae that will surely find its way into my fic at some point or other.


	4. Over the Waves

 

 

The excursion to Blackwell’s the next afternoon had been productive, though again, a trifle awkward at first for both of them. Draco had decided to take the never-happened-just-forget-it route, and although Hermione was dying to question him about the reason he’d left so abruptly the night before, she sensed it was better to leave it alone. There was always the possibility that in asking, she might get an answer she didn’t really want.

Arriving at the main branch of the bookshop, a large retail space located quite near Hertford on Broad Street, they’d been directed upstairs. Hermione had looked longingly towards the staircase that led down to the Norrington Room, the cavernous basement area holding thousands upon thousands of books, but Draco had pulled her away.

“Control yourself, Granger,” he had teased. “We’ll get there, don’t worry. First things first!” And he’d taken her firmly by the arm and steered her upstairs, where all the English and history offerings were housed.

The section on “Beowulf” was enormous; there was a mind-boggling array of editions, both in prose and poem form, and even more critical works. The two of them stood there gawking, until Hermione shook herself out of her initial surprise and began rummaging in her bag.

“Look,” she said firmly, still rooting around. “I did a bit of research last night on the various translations available and I’ve got it down to a small list of the most recommended ones. I think we should go for those. As far as critical texts, we can get those in the college library. Unless there’s something here we feel we absolutely must have. Plus, of course, there are some important critical essays included in some of the texts, so we’ll already have a head start. What do you think?”

Draco shrugged. “Fine with me. What’s on your list then?”

Hermione had finally extracted a small notebook from her shoulder bag and now she thumbed through it. “Ah, here. Okay. Seamus Heaney, for starters. Supposed to be brilliant. That’s in poem form. And so is the one by Rebsamen, though from what I’ve read about that one, you really have to know the poem well first before tackling that particular translation. That one’ll help us more with getting a feel for how the original sounded. Same for the one by Porter. There’s also a good one by Ruth Lehmann.” She glanced up at Draco. He was gazing around him, mesmerised by the bustle and noise and sheer size of the massive shop.

She gave his arm a poke. “Pay attention, Malfoy!”

He turned back to her, surprised. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, sighing noisily. “Well, I was _about_ to say that there are several good prose translations as well. Donaldson’s is one, Rebsamen’s is another, and the one by Bertha Rogers is supposed to be excellent too.”

Draco grinned. “Well, let’s get them all!”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I can’t afford that, not on my allowance! Not if we’re going to buy some criticism as well!”

“Ah yes,” Draco replied smoothly, placing his hand at the small of her back and propelling her gently towards the shelves. “But I _can_ afford it. Sod the expense. I’ll take care of it.”

“Will you… will you mind if I write in the books, though? Because I always write in the margins. I _have_ to, I can’t help it!”

He smirked, and gave a short laugh. “I won’t mind. Reading your margin notes will provide a fascinating insight into the way your overactive little brain works!”

“Hmm!” Hermione huffed, pushing against him playfully. Funny how his teasing was so much less… irritating than it always used to be when he’d merely been bloody _Malfoy_ to her and she’d so often been the butt of his mean jokes. And then she wondered if what he said was less the issue than how she’d perceived his intent then, compared to the way it was coming across now. Perception and intent: one fed off the other and in turn, influenced it. And then there was misperception and the rush to judgement, which often bollocksed everything up, intentions be damned. It was complicated!

In the end, they bought eight translations to compare against the original – four each of poetry and prose -- and decided to hold off on the criticism, opting to begin instead with the essays already included in the texts. Hermione was amazed when she saw Draco matter-of-factly withdraw a credit card from his wallet and hand it to the sales clerk.

She bit her tongue, however, managing to wait until they’d got outside, well away from anyone else, to ask about it.

“Don’t look quite so shocked, Granger,” he’d replied, shrugging. “Once I knew I’d be coming to study here, I had money from Gringotts changed into Muggle currency and deposited in a local bank. They gave me this card when I opened the account. It makes life a lot simpler, don’t you think?”

“Does that mean you take care of battels yourself?” Hermione was wide-eyed.

“Of course. Don’t you?” Now it was Draco’s turn to be surprised.

“No, I… my parents pay the bills. I mean, they’re sent home, not to me.”

“Well, it’s different for me. My parents neither understand nor support my decision to do this. I think my mother is less adamantly opposed to it than my father, but even she doesn’t really get it. I am of age, however, and certain funds have become available to me, so I can finally do what I want.” Draco smiled grimly. “Making the decision to move that money was very satisfying.”

“I bet,” Hermione murmured. She couldn’t imagine being at such odds with her own parents, who had always supported her in what she had wanted to do, even when her magical gifts had come to light and she’d chosen to leave her Muggle life behind to attend Hogwarts. Now Draco was describing essentially the same sort of situation in reverse. She understood that she’d had it easy by comparison, and suddenly she was very grateful for her parents’ sensitivity and support, something she’d always rather taken for granted.

A sudden tug at her jacket sleeve brought her back to the present. Draco was looking at her expectantly, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Earth to Granger,” he drawled. “Merlin, woman, _now_ who’s not paying attention?”

“Oh, sorry!” she said sheepishly, colouring. “What is it?”

“Well, I _was_ going to ask if you wanted to go back inside and explore a bit, just for fun. I know I would.”

A very enticing vision of miles and miles of books on every conceivable subject came to mind, and Hermione couldn’t resist.

She nodded happily. “Yes, please!”

Impulsively she grabbed his hand and led the way back inside the bookshop.

 

  
Blackwell’s, Oxford, main branch

  
The Norrington Room, downstairs at Blackwell’s

 

*

 

The following Thursday they met with their tutor, Mr. Allen, and presented the précis for their essays. He found both their idea for the proposal and the rationale for the project being a joint one to be sufficiently sound, and gave them the go-ahead to proceed with it. And so the work began in earnest.

They had decided to do a comparative study of several translations of the original text, and see if they could uncover possible cultural, philosophical, gender-related or historical biases that might have influenced the use of language in each one, and what such biases might mean for the legitimacy of the text in translation as well as what they might reveal about the time periods in which the translations were done. Now it was time to get down to cases and begin the intensive reading phase of the assignment.

They split the translations between them, each of them taking two poetic and two prose versions. They agreed that both would prepare notes and commentary on one translation per week, and that a month should suffice to get the work done and keep them on schedule, leaving them enough time to actually write the essay well before the due date. After each work session, they’d swap notes and translations, check everything, and append their own notes for the next meeting. Mr. Allen would monitor their progress closely in the weekly tutorials.

Halfway through the week, late on Monday night, there was a soft but insistent knock on Hermione’s door.

Struggling up out of sleep, she made her way there, her heart pounding.

“Who is it?” she hissed, her ear to the door.

“It’s me, Granger. Needed to get out for a bit, get some fresh air. Fancy a walk?”

“Malfoy, have you _totally_ lost the plot? It’s three o’clock in the morning!” Hermione exclaimed, trying to keep her voice down.

“It’s beautiful outside now! Come and see!” He sounded excited.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, shoes, and a warm jumper over her sleep shirt, Hermione grabbed her jacket and opened the double doors.

Draco wore his fleece pullover over a knitted turtleneck jumper and jeans. He flashed a quick smile at her as they slipped silently down the stairs and out the door to the quad, trying not to wake anyone.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, taking her hand and pulling her along. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you. I just want to show you something!” They walked until they stood in the centre of the quad.

“Right, now look up!”

She did, and a breathtaking sight met her eyes: against the backdrop of an inky sky, clouds like tattered lace scudded across a nearly full, silver-gold moon, their shredded ends flying behind, backlit in the halo of its light.

Hermione stood transfixed. “Oh…” she sighed finally. “It’s… it’s just… amazing! It looks like something out of a dream… or fairy land…”

“Three days to Samhain, you know,” Draco said quietly. “Remember the Hallowe’en feast at Hogwarts every year?” He was standing very close, just behind her, and his breath rustled her hair, tickling her cheek as she turned her head slightly.

As she turned the rest of the way, he stepped back a bit.

“I remember,” she replied softly, and then studied his face for a moment. “What’s wrong -- couldn’t sleep?”

Draco looked away from her and back up at the moon, now completely shrouded once again in clouds. “No. I… this happens to me sometimes. Don’t worry, I’m okay. Come on,” he urged, “let’s walk for a bit.”

And so they did, in companionable silence, for several minutes. The streets slumbered in an almost unearthly quiet, their footfalls nearly the only sounds. An occasional car passed, and even more rarely, a small knot of students on their way home. They were virtually alone.

Suddenly, Hermione stopped.

“Look,” she said, pointing at the sky. The clouds had begun to disperse, leaving a small swath of sky surrounding the moon completely clear. “There’s a star!”

She stood quite still and closed her eyes.

“What are you doing?” Draco wanted to know.

Hermione waved her hand, her eyes still shut. “Sshh… making a wish!”

Finally she squeezed her eyes a bit more tightly as if for emphasis and then opened them, giving Draco a shy smile. “I always make a wish on the first star I see at night. My mum taught me the rhyme when I was little.”

Suppressing a grin, he asked, “How does it go?”

“‘ _Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might have the wish I wish tonight!_ ’ Silly, really, but I’ve been doing it practically all my life, and I can’t seem to break the habit!”

They walked on in silence once again.

After a few moments, Draco looked at her. “What did you wish for?” he asked softly.

“Hey, don’t you know you’re not supposed to tell a wish?” she teased. “No, seriously, I can’t tell you. It’s bad luck.”

“I know what I would wish for,” he murmured.

She glanced at him curiously, but he was already looking straight ahead again as they walked.

By the time they returned to the college, it was well past four. They sat together on the steps outside the entrance to Staircase 2, neither one saying anything much. Hermione yawned, resting her head on the pillow of her arms and closed her eyes. Before very long, her breathing became deeper and more rhythmic, and he knew she’d fallen asleep.

Draco studied her. She seemed so fragile suddenly, so small. He reached a tentative hand out. It hovered above her hair, which had come undone from the bun she’d hurriedly pulled it into when she’d dressed. Suddenly, he wanted to bury his hand in the soft, springy curls, to lift them to his face and sniff their perfume. He could smell it faintly even now: apricots.

Holding his breath, he let his fingertips and then the whole of his hand rest lightly on her hair. It was just as soft as he’d imagined. Bending his head, he breathed in its scent, and then suddenly, she stirred and he drew back, snatching his hand away.

Opening her eyes, she smiled up at him sleepily.

“Come on, Granger, up you get,” he sighed, and held out his arms. Obediently, she placed her hands in his and he pulled her to her feet, slipping an arm around her waist to steady her as they walked up the stairs to her room.

She handed him her key and he fiddled with it in the lock for a moment before the inner door swung open; then he walked her to the bed, whereupon she lay down immediately, curling up with a small sigh. The temptation to lie down beside her and gather her very close was strong. Instead, tucking the quilt around her, he leaned over and finally gave in to another of several impulses that had been dogging him for the past hour and a half. Her cheek felt so smooth as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss there. She sighed again in her sleep and smiled, snuggling more deeply under her quilt.

Then, as he straightened up, he spotted something he hadn’t noticed when they first came into the room. On the wall above her bed, the posters had been rearranged and a new one had been added. It was a copy of the very same Wolf Kahn he loved so much, the one that hung on the wall over his own bed.

Surprised and oddly elated, he lost himself in it for a moment, the dim light of the small bedside lamp casting a flickering, golden sheen on the water and sky. As always, their ineffable serenity spoke to him, moved something inside him.

“ ‘Night, Hermione,” he whispered finally, and then turned out the light and slipped away. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

At the sound, she opened her eyes, her fingertips finding the spot his lips had touched only moments before. Smiling into the darkness, she turned over and went to sleep.

 

*

 

The following Thursday arrived, bringing their first working meeting for the project. They had arranged to have the session in Draco’s room at four.

Four o’clock found Hermione hurrying along the rain-darkened pavement leading to the entrance to Staircase 5. Her oversized bag, crammed with books and several folders of carefully organised notes, was slung over her shoulder.

When she knocked at three minutes past four, Draco was ready for her. His own notes had been meticulously arranged on the desk in neat piles next to the texts he’d read and prepared the notes on. Two mugs waited alongside a jar of instant coffee, a container of milk, and an assortment of tea bags and sugar packets in a small bowl. A box of iced, chocolate biscuits had already been pillaged, from the looks of it, but there were still a number of them left.

She swept in, dumping her book bag on his bed and plopping herself down next to it with a huge sigh.

“Hello to you too, Granger,” Draco said amiably. “And what’s got your knickers in such a twist, if I might ask?”

She looked up, rolled her eyes, and gave a quick, embarrassed laugh. “Oh, don’t mind me! I’m just being stupid, I suppose.” She ran a hand through her hair, the curls springy from the steady drizzle. Draco noticed that tiny droplets still clung to them.

“What’s happened?” He dropped into the nearby desk chair, straddling it backwards and leaning his chin on the chair back.

“It’s nothing, really, just the whole day going wrong right from the off! Overslept this morning, and then I was late to my tutorial with Bates—I actually had to throw my clothes on over my pyjamas, I was running so late!--- and _then_ I realised that in my rush, I’d forgotten to bring my rough draft to discuss with him and I had to apologise for wasting his time and run all the way _back_ to my room to get it, which left practically no time to really _talk_ to him, which was _awful_ , you know, because there were simply _loads_ of questions that I didn’t get to ask! And _then_ this absolute plonker kept bothering me at lunch; he wouldn’t leave me alone! He just didn’t get it that I _wasn’t interested_ ; he kept sticking his spotty nose in my face and asking personal questions and trying to get me to say I’d go out with him. Which I won’t. _Ever._ Ugh!”

Draco snorted. “What did you do then?” _I’ll warrant it was something good._

Hermione huffed, blowing a stray curl out of her eyes. “Well, I… um… had a small accident with my pasta. I can be terribly clumsy at times!” She gave him a wayward little grin. “The plate was a bit too close to the edge of the table, and… well… my elbow must have bumped it and… it was awful, really, pasta and sauce all over the silly git’s lap. At least it wasn’t hot anymore. But you should have seen him jump!”

They laughed together at the very thought.

“ _Oh!_ And then, on my way over here, I was running because I didn’t want to be late, and I caught my heel in a crack in the pavement and it broke right off!” She reached into her pocket and extracted the heel of her shoe. “See? And of _course_ , I went flying! Naturally about two hundred people saw me fall. Luckily I didn’t get hurt. But-- definitely not one of my more spectacular moments.” She caught his eye and grinned again, ruefully.

Draco covered his efforts not to laugh with an elaborate sigh and a shake of his head. “Whatever am I going to do with you, darling?”

That last word seemed to hang on the air in blazing letters, and there followed a moment of acute awkwardness. Then, recovering himself, he continued quickly, “Here, let’s have some tea, you look like you could really use a cup!”

The endearment hadn’t been lost on Hermione. It had taken her aback for just a moment, but then she’d dismissed it. _It’s just Malfoy. He’s always been an impossible flirt. It means nothing_.

Meanwhile, Draco turned away, busying himself with boiling the water and putting tea bags into the cups, hoping to hide the flush he felt suffusing his face. _‘Darling’?? Where did_ that _come from?_ It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d used the word when talking to a girl, but somehow, it felt different this time, in a way he wasn’t sure he understood or even felt comfortable trying to understand.

Turning back to Hermione, he held out a steaming mug to her.

“Tea?”

 

*

 

An hour later, there were papers spread out all over the floor, and the texts they’d bought lay scattered and open between them. To a casual observer, it would have appeared that the room was in total chaos, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

Hermione was partly buried under the stacks of notes she’d taken on the first of two versions of the poem she’d chosen. Tapping the end of her pen against her cheek, she scanned several index cards with an expression of deepest concentration.

“Right. The Lehmann translation came out in 1988 and the one by Heaney only eleven years later. So we’ve got a minimal amount of time to account for, probably of no real consequence in terms of the cultural or historical influences that could have affected the translations. Of course, there are still the questions of gender and personal philosophy.”

Draco nodded, fishing his own index cards from the mess on the floor and giving them a quick glance. “And let’s not forget the artistic sensibilities of each writer. Heaney is a poet in his own right. What about Lehmann?”

“She is as well, and a university professor for many years.”

“Right, same for Heaney,” Draco answered. “Then we’ll want to be thinking about how they use language in light of their backgrounds, and how they might be bringing their own take on writing to the translation. Let’s look at a couple of passages to see how they differ.”

Hermione was all business. “Good idea. Okay, which ones?”

“What about…” he mused and looked at the text again. “Okay, what about the lines in the opening section, the ones describing Beowulf’s voyage to Denmark. Here’s Heaney:

 

 _‘Over the waves, with the wind behind her  
and foam at her neck, she flew like a bird  
until her curved prow had covered the distance  
and on the following day, at the due hour,  
those seafarers sighted land,  
sunlit cliffs, sheer crags  
and looming headlands, the landfall they sought.  
It was the end of their voyage.’”_

 

His voice was richly expressive as he read, and Hermione found herself listening with great pleasure, wishing he wouldn’t stop. Even after he did, she sat there, still lost in the words he’d spoken.

 

“Uh… Hermione?”

Draco sat with his book in his lap, grinning.

“What? Oh! Sorry!” Chagrined, she ran her finger down the page of her text until she found the equivalent lines in her text.

“Okay, here’s Lehmann on the same section:

 

 _‘Off across the ocean, urged by breezes,  
foamy fore-stem flew like a bird,  
till by the set season of the second day  
the craft with curved prow had covered the distance,  
and those sailing men saw land ahead,  
shorecliffs shining, sheer escarpments,  
wide seaheadlands; waters were traversed,  
travel ended.’”_

 

Hermione thought for a minute. “Hmm. Did you notice the way she uses a part of the boat to mean the whole, when she says ‘foamy fore-stem flew like a bird’? Heaney refers to the ‘foam at her neck,’ and then just cuts to the chase and says ‘she,’ which is far more direct. So he sacrifices the alliteration there. We need to be thinking about which approach is more effective in terms of telling the story as well as the poetic use of language, and of course which one is closer to the spirit of the original. Another thing: Lehmann refers to the men as ‘those sailing men’—what was it Heaney said there?” She glanced up at Draco.

“ ‘Those seafarers.’ And he’s got ‘looming headlands’ compared to Lehmann’s ‘wide seaheadlands.’ Bit of a mouthful, that. And it doesn’t really get across the idea of these gigantic cliffs coming up at you suddenly as you’re sailing. You know, Heaney’s image reminds me of that bit in **Lord of the Rings** where they’re sailing and they see those huge stone statues of the kings looming ahead in the water. Remember that?”

Hermione nodded, excitement in her eyes.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I really prefer Heaney’s version. I think he’s far more accessible, overall, in terms of language, even if sometimes he sacrifices some of the poetic devices. What do you think?”

“Yes, definitely. I like his better too, from what I’ve seen of it. She’s far more abrupt at times. Look at the end of that section, where she just says, ‘travel ended.’”

“Yes!” Draco nodded, reaching for the last biscuit. “Want half?”

She shook her head.

He grinned and took a bite. “And did you notice the tone itself in that last bit? She says ‘waters were traversed, travel ended.’ Abrupt as you say, but more too, I think. Because-- listen to Heaney there: ‘those seafarers sighted land, sunlit cliffs, sheer crags and looming headlands, the landfall they sought. It was the end of their voyage.’ I think he’s personalised it much more, so that we feel what they’re feeling at the end of the voyage. That one line ‘the landfall they sought’ says it all, really. There’s real feeling there, a wish, you know? A desire for something that’s finally been fulfilled. Makes me think about what it must have been like for the Vikings, sailing all over the place, so much of their lives spent on the sea -- how they must have longed for those times they could finally set foot on dry land and feel the earth after so long away. Just as they probably really missed the open sea after too long ashore.”

Hermione nodded, a tiny smile lighting her eyes. She’d been mesmerised both by his words and by the rapt expression on his face as he spoke. That he was so keenly aware of language and had ideas as perceptive and impassioned as these were twin surprises. She’d never seen the introspective side of him in all the years she’d known him at Hogwarts -- only the more abrasive side. Now she wondered how much had been covered up by that caustic behaviour; it was apparently far more than she’d ever given him credit for.

“Oh, yes…” she said quietly, looking at him. “That was beautiful… what you said, I mean. You’ve thought about this quite a lot, haven’t you?”

Draco looked away for a moment. Suddenly he felt shy and a bit exposed. “I… yes, actually, I have. All those times when I would read to escape—well, you know, I told you about all that. I was always fascinated by the life of pirates and adventurers like the Vikings, people who could just up and go, be free, get away from the rules and the mundane conventions, all the daft shite that keeps people down in life. They were a law unto themselves.”

“Aren’t you romanticising them just a bit, though?” Hermione asked thoughtfully, propping her chin on bent knees. “I mean, they were pretty brutal, weren’t they, plundering and razing villages and all that, raping and killing. And were they really all that free? As you say, they made their own laws, but amongst themselves, there were some pretty harsh punishments if those rules were broken.”

Draco sighed. “That’s true. But it wasn’t their brutality that attracted me, despite what you might think.” He looked at her pointedly for a moment.

At this, Hermione flushed. “I didn’t mean--” she began.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you didn’t, though I suppose many _would_ think that of me. Look, it wasn’t that they could take what they wanted and rape and kill. That was the bit I always found really disturbing. It was just the freedom of the open sea-- the romance of it, yes, I’ll grant you that—having nothing around you but open sky and ocean and birds and fish, a horizon that never seems to end, blankets of stars at night…”

He closed his eyes for a moment and she could see that he was picturing it once again. “A man could really _breathe_ , living that life…”

It was only too clear what the elliptical ending of that sentence was. Hermione nodded silently. After a moment, she reached over and touched his hand.

“Let’s go on, yeah?”

They continued, going through passages and breaking them down, sharing the notes they’d already gleaned from their separate readings, discussing, until suddenly, the sky outside the window was dark. It was already past six.

Draco stretched luxuriantly, lying back and resting his head on a pillow he’d dragged to the floor from his bed.

“That’s it, I’m knackered!” He yawned, folding his arms above his head, and promptly closed his eyes.

Hermione leaned back against the desk, wriggling a bit to make herself comfortable with the knobs from the drawers digging into her back. She watched Draco as he lay there, loose-limbed and relaxed, his eyes shut and his expression completely unguarded. A sudden urge had her stealthily moving herself over so that she was sitting right next to him and could study his face more closely.

It was a striking face. Clean, spare lines, high cheekbones, a fine, straight nose, dark eyebrows and lashes beneath the palest, softest blond hair imaginable, a mouth that was sensual and expressive, a strong, clean jaw line and chin, skin like porcelain. And his eyes -- they were closed now, but she had noticed them for quite some time. Smoke-grey, darkening nearly to charcoal at times, alternately soft and piercing, truly mercurial.

She wanted to touch him. She’d wanted to ever since that night he’d kissed her. Would it be so wrong, really?

Hesitantly, she reached out, letting the tips of her fingers rest lightly on his hair -- Merlin, it was so _soft!_ \-- and then down to his left cheekbone, his jaw… gossamer touches so delicate that they must be nearly imperceptible… his mouth, his chin…

And… would a small kiss really be amiss? It would be a simple token of affection. And after all, he’d given her one just the other night when he’d thought she was asleep. It would be a kiss like that one, no more. Friends did things like that, didn’t they?

Leaning over, she closed her eyes, dropping a light kiss on his cheek, and had begun to move away when she felt a hand at the nape of her neck, pulling her back. His eyes were open now and they were dark and lustrous. He gazed at her for a heartbeat or two, and then drew her mouth down to his -- and this time, it was not the chaste kiss he’d given her three weeks before. This time, the desire was unmistakable. His lips moved sensually under hers, and their warmth and softness were sweetly intoxicating. She could taste a trace of chocolate on his tongue, as it caressed her lips and then slowly, delicately, searched her mouth.

They broke apart, finally, flushed and breathless. Draco gazed up at her, his eyes holding hers, not allowing her to look away.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he whispered.

She shook her head, her heart hammering.

He sighed, his head dropping back onto the pillow. “Ages. Since the beginning of term -- since that night. You know.”

Hermione nodded. She did know.

“But… is this okay?” she whispered. “I mean… I like you. I really do. You’re my friend. What does this mean? Are things going to be different now?” Hermione looked away, scared suddenly. “I really don’t want things to change. Well, I mean, I _do_ , but--”

She blushed at her own admission, and looked away.

Draco leaned back on one elbow, rolling his eyes. “Merlin, Granger, you do talk an awful lot! And here all I wanted was a simple snog.”

He looked her straight in the eye, and they both burst out laughing.

“Tell you what,” he said briskly, getting to his feet and pulling her up after him. “Let’s go outside and look at the moon. It’s full tonight, you know. Perfect for Hallowe’en!”

“And Samhain,” Hermione remembered. “Yes.”

“Come on, then. We can have dinner after that. And I hear there’s a party later tonight in the bar. Costumes optional. Think I’d make a convincing wizard?” Draco grinned, tossing Hermione’s jacket over to her, and then grabbed his own.

“Not in a million years, Malfoy!” she joked, and they laughed as they clattered down the stairs and out the door into the quad.

The moon was huge and full, still fairly low in the sky in its ascendancy this Samhain night. It was a rich, burnished gold, a true harvest moon, looking for all the world like a gigantic, golden lozenge suspended in a vast, dark sea. Stars surrounded it in countless strands of tiny, glittering gems.

As they stood looking up at the sky, he found her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“Have you made your wish, then?” he teased.

“Not tonight.” She smiled to herself. “I don’t need to. Come on, Malfoy, I’m _famished!_ ”

 

  
Draco and Hermione at the Hallowe’en party (no costumes!)

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Concerning the depiction of the tutorials at Oxford and the way essays are assigned: there is a lecturer for the course, Mr. Ponsonby, and then the tutor Draco and Hermione have been assigned to work under, Mr. Allen. They have been assigned to the same tutor for the reason they were both put in Hertford College—to make their transition to a Muggle university community easier.
> 
> Battels—the term used at Oxford referring to bills for tuition, housing and meals fees.
> 
> Talking of HP Britglish, I musn’t forget to offer up profuse thanks to everyone over there. You all are superb!
> 
> As ever, many thanks and hugs to my three lovely betas, kazfeist, mister_otter, and floorcoaster, for all that you do!
> 
> Ongoing thanks and props to moonjameskitten for her exquisite banner and also for the beautiful manip of Draco and Hermione at the close of the story. Both are just the way I picture them as beginning university students!
> 
>  
> 
> The texts Hermione and Draco are studying are:
> 
> Donaldson, E. Talbot. _Beowulf._ New York: W.W. Norton, 1966.
> 
> Heaney, Seamus. _Beowulf: A New Translation._ London: Faber and Faber, 1999.
> 
> Lehmann, Ruth P.M. _Beowulf: An Imitative Translation._ University of Texas Press, Austin, Texas, 1988.
> 
> Porter, John. _Beowulf: Text and Translation (literal word-by-word translation)._ Anglo-Saxon Books, Middlesex, England, 1993.
> 
> Rebsamen, Frederick. _Beowulf Is My Name (and selected translations of other Old English poems)_. Rinehart Press, San Francisco, 1971.
> 
> Rebsamen, Frederick. _Beowulf: A Verse Translation._ HarperCollins, New York. 1971.
> 
> Rogers, Bertha. _Beowulf_. Birch Book Press, Delhi, NY, 2000. (In using this text, I’m fudging the publication date ever so slightly, moving it up a few months to autumn 1999.)
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Only this plot, Mr. Ponsonby and Mr. Allen are mine. Everything else belongs to JKR. Well, except for Oxford, which belongs to the ages!


	5. Harrowing the Heart

  


 

 

  
Entering Hertford College through the Porter's Lodge, Catte Street…  


 

 

They were into the second half of term, four intensely busy weeks of reading, writing essays and gearing up for final exams. Hermione couldn’t believe it was already November. Before she knew what she was about, the term would be over. She’d learned the secret of the dreaded Essay Crisis and reckoned she was lucky that she’d only had two so far. It could have been a lot worse. Essay crises and upcoming finals notwithstanding, the end of term was something she really did not want to think about.

So she didn’t. Instead she focused on the here and now, and on her studies. And increasingly, on a certain blond tutorial partner, former bane of her existence and now, somebody who was insinuating himself ever more comfortably into the central fabric of her life day by day.

He crept into her thoughts unbidden even more often than when she conjured him there deliberately. Malfoy. No— _Draco._ It was really “Draco” in her thoughts now, even when “Malfoy” was what came out of her mouth.

It was a crush, right? A really adolescent one, too, because what else could possibly explain the fact that it was his face she often woke up thinking about -- that pale, silky hair, those smoky eyes, and the enigmatic smile that would flash suddenly, invariably causing a strange but pleasing little flutter in her stomach. And again, his face was often what saw her off to dreams at night, and then had the effrontery to star in those dreams! And this was only mornings and bedtime. Then there were all those times in between, when she’d be reading or studying and find herself drifting off into a daydream about him—what he smelled like, the feel of his skin, what he’d tasted like when he’d kissed her, lovely little fantasies of rubbing up against his soft, brushed-flannel shirt or knitted jumper and simply breathing him in, feeling his arms around her…and how nice it was to just _be_ together, whether they were discussing a book over coffee-- arguing over it, even-- or talking about nothing special at all, having a walk, quietly watching the stars together… his dry sense of humour, those very acerbic observations he’d make, that dulcet voice when he’d read aloud to her…

Well, this just had to _stop_. Morgana, it was seven o’clock in the morning! She’d set her alarm clock extra early so she could get a bit of extra reading time in before her tutorial with Parsons at ten. It just wouldn’t _do_ to be fixating on what a very lovely, soft, eminently kissable mouth Malfoy had…

 _Focus_ , Hermione. George Eliot. _Not_ Draco Malfoy!

On the other side of the quad, a certain tall blond was in the final throes of a very pleasant dream. Just how delightful was evident from the little smile that lifted the corners of his mouth and the restless movements of his limbs, culminating in the clutching of one of the pillows to his chest with a husky cry of “Hermione!”

Draco’s eyes opened into two narrowed slits and he yawned, covering them against the bright sunshine of this November morning. It was a wet and sticky awakening yet again. Fourth time this week, for a total of fourteen in the last month. The rate of frequency seemed to be on the rise, in fact.

It just wasn’t normal for a healthy, nineteen-year-old man to be this horny without a satisfying outlet for release! He’d had more desperation wanks in the last month than he could remember since the age of twelve. (He’d nearly laughed out loud when it dawned on him that they were over the same girl now as back then.) It was no wonder he was having to launder his sheets so frequently, sorely tempting him to break his own self-imposed rule of no magic whilst at uni. He’d finally mastered the temperamental contraption in the basement launderette that generally did a fairly rubbish job of cleaning his clothes. It was small consolation.

Theoretically, of course, he should be able to solve his little problem simply enough. There was no shortage of attractive girls here at Oxford. He’d noticed a number of them in lectures and just in passing-- in the library, the dining hall, the JCR. There was one who’d smiled at him the other day when he’d nipped into the Swift Room for a quick coffee. But somehow, he just didn’t have the heart for the pursuit.

It was all just so pointless, really. It certainly wouldn’t be for the company. He wasn’t really that much of a people person. The common perception was simply that he was aloof and even unfriendly, because most often, he kept to himself and just went about his business efficiently and quietly. He had made a couple of friends, but they were still more in the category of friendly acquaintances at this point. And the simple fact was, he’d grown rather comfortably and happily used to the company of one fellow student in particular, and he found himself quite content with that, not wanting or requiring anything or anyone more.

So much time would be wasted with the preliminaries, when all he needed was some simple _relief_. But all of that was moot anyway, because whenever he so much as contemplated the hypothetical notion of asking somebody out, _She_ kept popping into his head, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

All in all, it was a predicament, and he could see only one solution. And that—well, _that_ was possibly a long way off at best, despite the _very_ nice kiss they’d recently shared. _If it happens at all_ , the more skeptical bit of his brain—the bit that was still fairly incredulous that this friendship, relationship, whatever it was, with Granger of all people, had begun, considering their very rocky past history—reminded him.

He held his hand up, flexing his fingers, and sighed deeply. _You and me, mate_.

 

*

 

An hour later, the phone in Hermione’s room shrilled, startling her out of her intense concentration on **The Mill on the Floss**.

It was Draco.

“Granger!” His voice was chipper. “Been to breakfast yet?”

“No,” Hermione replied, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. “Not yet. You?”

“Uh-uh. Fancy something now? I’m starved! And we need to talk about the essay.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Dining hall in fifteen minutes?”

“Great, yeah. See you there.”

 

*

 

Hermione found Draco waiting for her just outside the entrance to her staircase instead, his foot tapping impatiently. When she appeared, he broke into a big smile, which he quickly calmed into a nonchalant little grin.

“Morning, Granger!” he said sunnily. _You are definitely a sight for sore eyes, darling_.

“Hi,” she smiled. “You’re here, I see.” _Brilliant, Hermione. Of course he is, you silly cow! Stop gibbering like an idiot_ …

“Yes, well…come on, we can talk inside.” He grabbed her arm and they set off towards the dining room.

The building in Old Quad that housed the dining hall was one of the most unusual either Draco or Hermione had ever seen. They agreed that its curious, rather eccentric, wrap-around design would in fact be quite at home at Hogwarts.

 

  
Old Quad, location of the dining hall

 

Up the spiral staircase and they were there. It was busy at this hour, students milling about with trays, conversation welling up from the tables and the food queue.

Ten minutes later, they found a corner table and sat down with bowls of porridge, fruit juice, toast, and steaming cups of hot chocolate, its rich fragrance wafting invitingly about their heads. A cheery fire blazed in the tiled fireplace. All around the warm, wood-panelled walls, portraits of earlier masters of the college looked sternly down at them, joined by William Tyndale, first translator of the New Testament into English, and King James II. It wouldn’t have taken much imagination to believe that any minute, they would turn their heads and begin conversing with each other, much as the portraits at Hogwarts did. But the subjects of these portraits remained stubbornly frozen in time.

Hermione took a sip of orange juice and stirred her porridge to cool it. “We’ve got Allen the day after tomorrow. I’ve done Rebsamen and Rogers. Have you finished your notes on Donaldson and Porter?”

Draco nodded, chewing a bite of toast and marmalade. “Ready,” he said thickly, swallowing the last bit of it and giving his mouth a quick swipe with a napkin. He took a sip of cocoa, licking the froth off his upper lip. “You available later?”

“Mmm. Where?”

“Well… um… my room’s a bit of a mess. I’ve got stuff all over my bed… laundry…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! We can do your laundry and work at the same time.”

Draco shook his head, suddenly panicked. The last thing he wanted her to catch sight of was his sheet, stiff with this morning’s jizz. “No, no, that’s okay, you don’t--”

Hermione took a quick sip of her cocoa, holding up her hand. “It’s perfectly all right, I insist! What time?”

There was clearly no arguing with her. Defeated, Draco considered for a moment. “Three good for you?”

“Perfect. I’m totally free then.” She smiled happily and dug into her oatmeal.

End of discussion.

 

*

 

Promptly at three, Hermione stood at Draco’s door. He opened it on the second knock. From where she stood, she could see a well-stuffed laundry basket sitting in the centre of the bed.

“Ready to go, then?” she asked brightly.

He nodded, shoving a small bottle of detergent in amongst the clothes, plus two slim volumes and a folder with his papers and notes alongside it.

They made their way to the basement of New Quad 6, where the laundry room was located. Draco dug into his back pocket for the 20p-coins he’d been hoarding for this purpose, laying them down on a rickety card table.

Hermione smiled expectantly at him and nodded towards his laundry basket.

“Oh… er… right, then,” he said lamely. “I’ll… uh… load up the machine, shall I… you don’t want to touch my dirty stuff…”

Hermione bit her lip, the giggle bubbling up in her throat. “No, no, that’s fine, you go right ahead!”

Turning his back to her so that his body blocked most of her view (he _hoped_ ), he dragged the laundry basket over to the nearest washing machine and began pulling out its contents, which included a couple of mildewed towels and some well-aged and somewhat skanky socks he’d discovered that morning under the bed. Finally he reached the sheet in question. Closing his eyes momentarily, he thanked the gods that this time at least, his duvet had been spared.

Sitting in a folding chair next to the table, Hermione watched all this avidly, fascinated not only by the contents of the typical male laundry basket, but also the oddly crab-like body language of this particular male as he emptied said contents out of it. She stood up and moved closer, stopping right behind Draco, who was still hunched over as he hauled his sheet out and it disappeared, snake-like, into the washing machine.

“Can I help?” she asked sweetly.

The last bit of offending sheet in his hands, Draco whipped around to face her.

“No! I mean…” he swallowed, “no, _thanks_. I’ve just about finished, see?” Grinning foolishly, he pushed the remainder over the rim of the washing machine, hurriedly tossed in a capful of liquid detergent, and slammed down the lid. His body seemed to sag with relief as he leaned back against the broad front of the washer.

“Um… don’t you need to put the money in, Malfoy?” Hermione was that close to losing it now and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter spilling out.

A moment before, Draco had thought it impossible to feel any more embarrassed than he already did, but apparently he’d been mistaken. Cheeks burning, he strolled to the table as casually as he could manage it, scooped up four coins, and plunked them down in the coin slot one at a time, ramming the metal sliding piece in as hard as he could. Twice, the coin slot stuck and he wound up having to deliver a couple of swift kicks to the machine before it would accept his money. Finally, it shuddered to life and began an undulating, grinding sort of stationary dance as the clothes and linens agitated inside.

He turned, visibly relieved, and sauntered back to the table where he pulled up a chair opposite a very pink-faced Hermione.

“Ready?” he asked coolly, and opened his folder, spreading his notes out in a fan.

Blinking back tears of mirth, Hermione nodded and reached for her own notes.

 

*

 

They spent the next half hour reading over each other’s notes while the washer rumbled and shook. Finally, the wash cycle ended and Draco sprang up to move the wet laundry to the closest dryer. When he opened the door, a thick wad of lint fell out, loose particles of it wafting up into his face. Brushing it away and shaking his head, he heaved his damp stuff into the circular basket of the dryer and shut the door, dropping five twenty-pence coins into the slot in succession and turning the dial after each one.

“Right, fifty minutes ought to do it, I expect. Now—where were we?” he muttered, brushing off his hands and dropping back down into the folding chair.

Hermione looked up from the index cards she’d been perusing, pencil in hand.

“Okay, basically, what we’re looking into boils down to this: first, the way women are portrayed in the various translations. Have the gender and time period of the translator influenced the translation in any way? Second: how the hero deals with his role. Is there any ambivalence or remorse? Does he identify at all with his enemies? Does he feel any compassion or understanding?”

“In other words,” Draco interrupted, “can we find a hint of a modern sensibility anywhere in the translations?”

“Exactly!” Hermione nodded. “Of course, there are three enemies and each one is in a very different circumstance, so we’ll have to deal with them separately. And last, there’s the portrayal of the three monsters, starting with Grendel of course. And each one of them is so different to the other two.”

“Well, the time frame goes from 1966 to 1999,” Draco mused. “Thirty-three years. I don’t know, Granger… so far we haven’t really found much to support the idea that the time period of the translations will factor in very substantially.”

“ _Except_ ,” Hermione grinned, her eyes sparkling with the challenge, “I wonder if we might find a slight shading of difference between the way Grendel’s mother is portrayed in Rogers and Lehmann and what we find in, say, Donaldson and Rebsamen. If so, the difference in time period could tie in to a possible influence of gender! Let’s have a look!”

Draco felt laughter bubbling up in his chest, but it was laughter that signaled the pure pleasure he found in her excitement. Her enthusiasm was so entirely infectious, he couldn’t help grinning. And that warmth lit him up inside whenever he was around her.

Several other students had come in whilst they were working and moved around them with their own laundry, basically ignoring them completely. Before long, all three washing machines were whirring along with the dryer containing Draco’s laundry, and the pungent odours of fabric softener, detergent, and lint filled their nostrils as they worked.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed abruptly. “I’ve found something, I think! Come and see!” She motioned to Draco excitedly, and without thinking, he rose and moved around to her side of the table, leaning over her to peer at the book into which she was pointing.

Hermione was beaming. “See here! Rogers says, ‘Up she came; she smote him with her nailed hand, an awful blow; she hugged him to her breast; then the foot warrior, of champions the strongest, stumbled. Tired in his soul, he fell to the ground.’ Malfoy, what does ‘she hugged him to her breast’ suggest to you?”

Now _that_ was a novel question, innocently though it had been posed. He swallowed a smirk and tried to think, but instead, found himself distracted by the fragrance of her hair, now so close. “Um… it’s… well, it sounds as if…” His voice trailed off as he fought the desire to bury his face in that cloud of apricot-scented hair.

Hermione had turned to look up at him when he fell silent, and now found herself gazing straight into those very eyes she’d been daydreaming about earlier: now their silvered irises were darkening to smoke, and his dark-fringed lids were slipping shut as he drew imperceptibly nearer.

Morgana, it was happening again.

“We… we can’t… we’re supposed to be…” she began weakly, and then gave up, closing her eyes and giving herself over to the sensation he always seemed to provoke in her of being swept out to sea and yet being completely at peace with just letting go.

His hand was in her hair, closing over a clutch of curls at the back of her head. And then he pressed his cheek against the top of her head; she could feel him inhaling and then letting the breath out in a soft sigh that warmed the skin of her scalp. It felt to her almost like a sigh of…relief, if that were possible.

And then her head was being gently tilted up just a bit, and finally, _finally_ , his warm, tender mouth was on hers. He kissed her slowly and thoroughly, and she sat very still, her hands falling slack in her lap, the sweet sensation of this sudden intimacy washing over her in gentle waves.

Suddenly one of the other students doing a load of laundry walked back in, and they broke apart, Hermione pink with embarrassment as she stared down at her book.

“Carry on, don’t mind me!” the student said cheerfully, turning his back and busying himself with putting his wet clothes into the other dryer.

Draco grinned as he sat back down on his side of the table. “I think we’d best get back to work, eh? What was that you were saying about somebody being hugged?” He winked at her, laughing softly.

Hermione blushed. “I didn’t realise I was issuing an invitation when I said that!”

“Do you mind?” he asked quietly, gazing at her.

The shy smile she gave in reply was like a thousand candles.

 

*

 

Getting back to work after that was virtually impossible. As it happened, the dryer stopped just then, and Draco had to collect his laundry so that somebody else could use the machine. It was almost a relief to have the busywork of unloading and folding all the clothes, simply to take his mind off what had just happened between them again. He really couldn’t take much more of this. It was becoming a torture to him—sweet, delicious, but torture just the same. He wondered if it were the same delightful agony for her.

There and then, he resolved to find out.

They worked together for a while, sorting and folding and carefully laying the clothing in the basket. Hermione judiciously avoided Draco’s underwear, feeling she might just incinerate if she had to handle his boxers after that smoldering kiss.

Deftly catching a sock she’d tossed him, the match to one he held, he said nonchalantly, “You know, we really didn’t finish here. And we’ve got to be ready for Allen pretty soon. What about getting some sort of take-away instead of eating in hall, and knocking out the rest of this lot tonight?”

Hermione looked up from the shirt she’d been folding. _What a very good idea_. “Okay. My room? It’s my turn, I think. I’ve actually got a bunch of menus we can look at.”

“Great.” _Excellent. Bloody, fucking **marvelous**!_ Containing his elation, he allowed himself a casual grin and returned to folding.

The clothing and linens were all properly folded at last, and stacked neatly in the basket. Resting his chin against a towel at the top of the pile to steady the contents as he walked, Draco carried his laundry through New Quad back to Holywell, Hermione carrying their books and papers in her own bag.

They parted once they’d reached the centre of their quad, Draco agreeing to come over a bit later. Hermione was itching to get away, a sudden desire for a shower and a change of clothes having overcome her. The same urge had struck him, and he flashed a smile at her and took off across the quad as fast as a heavy laundry basket would permit. She fairly ran the rest of the way to Staircase 2.

A scant thirty-five minutes later, just as Hermione was rather frantically putting her other earring on, there was a soft knock at her door. Looking at her reflection one last time, makeup notwithstanding, she bit her lip for a bit of colour, pinched her cheeks, gave her hair one final scrunch to set the curls, and opened the door.

Draco stood there, his hands shoved in his pockets, a boyish little smile on his face. Hermione felt suddenly shy as she stepped back to let him in. This wasn’t an actual date… _was_ it? A study date maybe. A working dinner. But she did notice, as he moved past her to slip off his jacket and sit down at the foot of her bed, that he had just showered as well. There was a fresh, soapy scent about him, and his hair was still faintly damp as he ran a hand through it to push it out of his eyes. He’d shaved too—a tiny, telltale nick on his jaw gave that away, along with a hint of sandalwood aftershave. That, and he’d changed into a soft grey, crewneck pullover and close-fitting black jeans. _Very nice indeed_.

As she was assessing him, so he was making his own detailed observations. _Cute little top, nice bit of cleavage. Sweet._ He approved of the jeans too— low-slung and stove-pipe, they made her slim legs seem to go on forever. And what was that delicious scent? It complemented the fresh apricot of her hair, now more intense for having just been shampooed, stray tendrils curling damply around her face. Honey and almond, was that it? Whatever it was, he was captivated.

If all the trouble she’d just gone to were any indication, he supposed he had the answer to his earlier question. Smiling to himself, he looked up.

“What about those menus, then, eh? I’m starved!”

Five minutes later, they sat opposite each other, Indian-style, on the bed, a colourful array of menus fanned out between them.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” Hermione asked, picking up a couple of menus. “I think I’ve got a bit of everything: Chinese, Indian, Italian, Lebanese, pizza, fish and chips, French, Thai…”

Draco’s head snapped up. “Thai, did you say? I’ve never had that. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a lot of the things you mentioned.” He chuckled. “Do you like Thai food?”

Hermione leaned back against her pillows and stretched, closing her eyes and smiling as she nodded. “I love it! It’s just about my favourite.”

“Right, well, let’s have a look at the menu then, and you can tell me what’s good.” He pulled her back into a sitting position.

“Okay…let’s see…” She opened the menu and scanned it quickly. “This one’s Oxford Thai, in Cowley Road. They’re supposed to be pretty good, I hear. _And_ they deliver. Have a look.” She handed the menu over to him and he studied it for a moment, his brow furrowed.

Then he looked up and grinned sheepishly. “I really don’t know one thing from another, Granger. I’ll just leave it to you.”

“Well, do you fancy plain or spicy?”

“Oh, spicy-ish, I suppose. I don’t know. Look, whatever it is, if _you_ like it, I’ll try it.”

“Feeling pretty brave, aren’t you?” Hermione laughed. “I could decide to poison you or at the very least, make you very, very ill! You know, revenge and all that, for all those times when--”

“Right, I get it, I get it!” He threw his arms up in surrender and then leaned in close, grinning smugly. “But… you won’t, will you, Granger? You like me too much.”

He sat back, his arms folded-- looking rather like the Cheshire Cat, Hermione found herself thinking.

“Cheeky,” she muttered, but she couldn’t help a small giggle. “Just how hungry are you, anyway?”

“Famished.”

“Then let’s have the Prawns Pad Thai— oh, do you like prawns?” She glanced over at him quickly and he shrugged. “Hmm, better make that chicken then, just in case. And ooh, some Thai salad with peanut sauce. That’ll be perfect. Sound good?”

Draco nodded, his mouth beginning to water. This evening promised to be an adventure in more ways than one, he felt sure.

From the telephone where she had begun to dial to place to order, Hermione looked back at Draco as he lounged on her bed. He looked so completely natural and relaxed there. Catching her looking, he smiled and winked. Odd. If anyone had told her even as little as a year ago that she’d become friends with Draco Malfoy of all people in the world, she’d have laughed herself sick. And yet…

“May I help you?” the voice said on the other end of the line, jarring her out of her reverie.

“Oh yes,” she began, and listed their order. “Malfoy! Fancy trying some Thai beer? It’s rather nice.” Draco gave her a thumbs-up and she added a couple of bottles of Singha to the order. “Right, £14.00. Very good. Thanks!”

She hung up the phone and turned to Draco. “All done. The food should be here in about forty minutes. Can you wait? I might have some biscuits to tide you over if you’re really ravenous.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. _Only for one thing, love, and it doesn’t come in a tin_. “No, no, I’m fine, I can certainly wait. We can get some work done in the meantime. Come here.” He patted the bed.

Obediently, she returned, books and notes in hand, and plopped herself down against the pillows at the head of the bed.

“Suppose we should start where we left off in the laundry room,” she murmured, turning pages of notes until she found the spot. “Right, here. I had been about to make the point that Rogers’ wording suggests—to me, anyway—a sort of weirdly skewed, ironic, maternal response to Beowulf, at least in terms of imagery. Listen: ‘she hugged him to her breast, then the foot warrior, of champions the strongest, stumbled. Tired in his soul, he fell to the ground.’ If you look at that passage in all the other translations, nothing else comes quite as close as that one.”

Despite his earlier, very pleasant preoccupation, Draco was curious, and began flipping through the other texts spread out on the bed, to find the equivalent lines. “Rebsamen puts it like this: ‘she grappled my arms and slipped me over, pinned me down…’ Not even close, you’re right. And his poem version says…hang on, let me find it…okay, right: ‘She clamped his arms in her cold fiend-grip.’ Same basic idea. Okay, let’s look at Donaldson: ‘she… clutched at him.’ Not the same thing, is it. Sounds desperate and fairly violent. And Porter: ‘…and him against her clasped…’ That comes about the closest to Rogers of any of them so far. What about Heaney and Lehmann?”

Hermione was already ahead of him, looking quickly through various piles of sorted index cards. “Ah!” she said triumphantly, holding up the sought-after notes. “Heaney’s goes like this: ‘she… grappled him tightly in her grim embrace. The sure-footed fighter felt daunted, the strongest of warriors stumbled and fell.’ That’s a bit closer, isn’t it, because you’ve got the notion of an _embrace_ of some sort, which always carries associations of love, and then he falls down because he feels overcome. His emotions cause a physical reaction. We see that in the Rogers version as well, don’t we, where she says, ‘tired in his soul, he fell to the ground.’ Pretty powerful stuff, that. All the others have him falling down but only because she was so strong and knocked him off his feet and then sat on him. Lehmann doesn’t go quite that far. She says, ‘with her grievous grip, she grasped the fighter,’ and then, the hero, disheartened… stumbled, falling.’ So she’s got a bit of that same element, but not to the same degree at all. Conclusion?”

Draco sat back. “Seems to me,” he began slowly, thinking aloud, “that the only common thread between Rogers and Heaney is the period in which they published, virtually the same time exactly. So-- can we posit, perhaps, that a more modern sensibility would see the shades of grey in the situation, and interpret the lines so that we feel just a shred of sympathy for the mother who has lost her child? And that in a strange, twisted way, we are almost seeing her holding Beowulf as a substitute for her dead child just before she tries to kill him to avenge her child’s death?”

“That’s just what I was thinking too,” Hermione said with quiet satisfaction. “Exactly.”

Just then, the phone rang. It was the delivery man, waiting outside the entrance to the college on Catte Street. Draco stood up, shrugging on his jacket.

“Oh—hang on, here’s my £7.00,” Hermione muttered, digging into her purse for her money. But before she’d had a chance to extract her portion of the bill, Draco had disappeared, returning before very long with a paper sack of aromatic food and a big smile. He set it down on her desk.

“Mmm, smells fantastic,” he pronounced, poking his head inside it for a moment. “My treat, Granger. You can pay next time.”

She smiled and shook her head in wonderment as she put away her purse, and began setting out the contents of the sack on the desk.

Half an hour later, two nearly empty containers and four chopsticks lay abandoned on the desk, alongside two balled-up napkins. Draco lay recumbent on the soft rug, his legs stretched all the way out, two large, squishy pillows behind his head. Hermione sat with her back to the bed, her legs stretched out as well, crossed at the ankle. They’d had most of their beer, still taking periodic swigs of the remains, and already it was making them both a bit woozy. She glanced at Draco and giggled.

“What?” he asked, pretending injured feelings. “Laughing at me again, are you, Granger? What is it this time?”

“I was just thinking about you and those ridiculous chopsticks!” She giggled again, this time letting out a pronounced snort.

He snickered. “Tsk. Not terribly ladylike. And what _about_ me and the chopsticks?!”

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, tears of laughter beginning to leak from her eyes. “It’s just… I keep remembering how your chopsticks kept opening every time you tried to pick up a bit of food. I lost count of how many mouthfuls wound up in your lap or on the floor!”

He laughed too, despite himself. It had been his first attempt with the damnable things and he’d decided that they were simply too primitive and uncivilised to bother with in future. Dodgy little twigs, how could anybody get a decent mouthful using them? But it had been an experience. And the food itself had been amazing, what he’d managed to get into his mouth, anyway.

“You know,” he mused, “ I am still a bit hungry. And I see that there’s still a little bit of the food left. But all that effort really tired me out. Perhaps you could tutor me in the use of chopsticks—you know, show me again. Maybe I’ll get the hang of it eventually.” He looked up at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Hermione looked at him, one eyebrow quirked, and then a slow smile spread over her face.

“All right,” she replied, picking up the remains of salad and Pad Thai and a pair of chopsticks and sliding over to sit next to him. “First, Malfoy, you let the bottom chopstick rest _here_ , like so--” She indicated the fleshy area between her thumb and pointer finger. “And grip it between your middle and ring fingers. It stays stationary. Now, the _top_ chopstick…” She held out her hand to show him, moving a bit closer. “The top one is held in place between the thumb and the pointer finger. That’s the one that moves and controls how you pick up a piece of chicken…” She reached into the dish and snagged a juicy slice of chicken. “And bring it to your mouth…”

Leaning in, she deposited the morsel in Draco’s open mouth. He promptly closed it, chewed and swallowed, nodding.

“Again, please. Still hungry, and I’m not sure I’ve quite got the hang of it.” He opened his mouth and waited patiently.

Hermione speared a curlicued cucumber, dipping it into some peanut sauce, and brought it to Draco’s mouth. This time, he closed his lips around the tips of the chopsticks and his hand around her wrist, slowly extracting the food and chewing it languidly.

“Delicious,” he said, his voice low and husky. “More, please.” His glance was trained directly on her face, his eyes meeting and holding hers.

Hermione began to feel a prickling sensation traveling up her back and over her scalp, and a clenching in the pit of her stomach. He was doing it again, making her all edgy and fluttery. She took a breath and reached down for some noodles, neatly grasping them between the two points of the chopsticks.

“Here,” she whispered, placing the food in his mouth. Now, one hand closed around her wrist again, while the other slipped to the small of her back. He chewed the food carefully, slowly, keeping his gaze on her face the entire time. When he’d swallowed, he squeezed her wrist just enough that she opened her fingers and the chopsticks dropped away.

“Thank you,” he replied softly, a faint smile on his lips. “That was… _exquisite_.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Hermione.”

Her name sounded like music when he said it.

There was a sudden roaring in her ears and her heart banged wildly in her chest. This time she didn’t wait. He was too near, his presence too overwhelming. Breathlessly cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him.

Smiling against her mouth, he returned her kiss immediately, sucking lightly at her bottom lip, running his tongue over it, thrusting it into her mouth and finding hers eager and ready. The exotic taste of spices and coconut lingered in their mouths as he drew her closer still, pressing her to his chest as if his very life’s breath depended on drinking in hers.

“Oh,” she murmured, “ _OH!_ ” and kissed him again. Suddenly, it seemed she couldn’t get enough of him. “Oh, _Draco!_ ”

Before she knew it, she was lying on her side, cradled in his arms against the pillows. She looked up at him. His expression, partly in shadows, was briefly cryptic, several emotions warring in his eyes. And then there was only one as he leaned down and kissed her ardently.

But this time he wasn’t content with kisses alone, lovely and breathtaking as they were.

His head dropped to her shoulder and he began pressing his lips to her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, his mouth learning the silken feel of it. His fingertips followed, skimming her neck, her collarbone, and the warm valley between her breasts with glancing caresses, and for a moment, he rested them there, as her breath caught in her throat and she arched her back, asking, wanting…

And then they moved again, lightly traversing the hills of her breasts to their peaks.

“May I?” he asked huskily, a fingertip coming to rest gently on one nipple, which firmed immediately under the cotton of her shirt.

“Yes,” she said, her voice hushed, and she covered his hand with her own, pressing his fingers to her breast and finding the contact not nearly enough. Reaching for him, she slipped cool hands beneath the hem of his shirt and slid them up the smooth skin of his chest.

He needed more too. Burying his hand in her hair, he lifted it away, moving the neckline of her shirt aside to drop a kiss on her right shoulder. And then his hand disappeared inside her shirt at the back, inching higher until it reached the clasp of her bra.

“May I?” he whispered again, nuzzling her ear and sending delicious shivers over her body.

He could feel her nod. With fingers that trembled slightly, he unfastened the clasp and found his way beneath the loosened cups to her breasts, covering them with his warm hands. They were a perfect fit, not too big or small, and as he gently brushed his thumbs over her raised nipples, finally feeling the tender flesh bared for the first time, he heard her sigh softly. He caressed them again and again, finally lifting her shirt and dipping his head to take one into his mouth.

“Mmm…” he breathed, and something in him felt like it was breaking just a little. “Oh, _Hermione_ …”

She lowered her gaze, smiling shyly, one small hand stealing to the back of his head and stroking his hair as he kissed and fondled her breasts.

He was so caught up in her fragrance and softness and beauty that at first, he didn’t hear her when she spoke.

“Draco,” she said again. “Wait. Please.”

He raised his head from the breast he’d been so pleasurably suckling, his mouth coming away from it with a pop, and looked at her.

“I’m sorry… what?” he said, somewhat dazed. “What’s wrong?”

“I… no, it’s just… well… I’ve never done this before. I don’t think I’m quite ready to… you know…” Hermione looked away self-consciously. “I mean, I _want_ to… with you… honestly, I _do_ …” She looked up at him, almost afraid to meet his eyes, and then glanced away briefly.

All the many moments he had spent fantasising and dreaming about this girl had abruptly telescoped down to this one moment, and he knew with sudden, absolute clarity that whatever might come in the days ahead rode on it as well.

He looked down at her. If he had thought her beautiful before, now—lying there, looking at him with huge, troubled eyes, her face flushed — _now_ , she took his breath away.

He tried to smile reassuringly. “It’s okay, love. Really. We can just… there are other things we can do. If you want to, I mean,” he added hastily, catching her chin and turning her head so he could really look her in the eye. Suddenly he felt unaccountably scared, though of what he wasn’t certain.

What he saw in her eyes put his fears to rest. Relief and happiness shone there, but more than that—there was trust. She _trusted_ him. That was absolutely everything.

“Stay with me tonight?” she asked softly, taking his hand.

He nodded. In that moment, he knew he’d have done anything she asked.

 

*

 

They spent the next several hours lying on Hermione’s bed, talking quietly about anything and nothing at all, their work utterly forgotten. Hands continually sought each other for small touches. Fingertips met fingertips, one palm found another, hands clasped, as if something new and fragile had been birthed and now it needed the sustenance of contact. Neither of them could have put a name to it. But when at last sleep overtook them and they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, it was something more than simple comfort and desire that drew them together.

 

 

 

TBC

 

 

  
Oxford Thai, 179 Cowley Road, Oxford

 

 **Glossary of Terms:**

 

 **JCR** \-- Junior Common Room. Each college at Oxford has one for undergrads, as well as separate common rooms for upperclassmen and graduate students.

 **Swift Room** —a small room containing a microwave and supplies for making hot drinks. Named, I’m assuming, for Jonathan Swift, one of the many illustrious alumni of Hertford College. Others include John Donne, Thomas Hobbs and Evelyn Waugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heartfelt thanks and hugs to kazfeist, mister_otter, and floorcoaster for their support, friendship, and excellent beta skills! Each one offers me something unique and very special.
> 
> Thanks and bouquets to all the lovely folk at HP Britglish for answers to the pickiest questions possible, right down to how many 20-p coins it takes to do a load of wash in the Oxford laundry rooms!
> 
> Thank you and highest praise to moonjameskitten for her extraordinary art work! I love this banner and _everything_ you do, Sathy!


	6. Revelations, Part One

 

24 November  
Saturday afternoon

 

It didn’t seem possible that there was only one week left of term, but there it was.

One week—such a short time in which to finish up essays and finally pack up, preparatory to bringing virtually all one’s belongings home for the 6-week vacation between Michaelmas and Hilary terms. Rooms in the colleges were only let to students for the duration of each term and used between times to house people attending conferences or prospective students being interviewed at the university.

Like many other parents, Richard and Claire Granger would arrive in their car the following Saturday to collect Hermione and the contents of her room. She had no idea how Draco would manage to transport his stuff home except by dragging his large, soft-sided canvas trunk onto a train. She could just imagine Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy turning up along with the other parents for the kerbside loading ritual. And in what? A Thestral-drawn carriage? Alternatively, the very thought of the two of them suddenly Apparating into Holywell Quad-- their dark cloaks and long, blond hair whipping round in the late-autumn wind-- was enough to make her blanch when she wasn’t laughing at the sheer absurdity of the image. In any case, that would be the last thing Draco would want, she felt sure.

Now that there was only a week remaining, it was impossible to ignore the fact that a huge block of time loomed in which very possibly, she would not see him at all. Suddenly, that month and a half seemed an endless stretch of time, empty and amorphous, bereft of the routines she’d come to depend on to delineate and inform her daily life. And she couldn’t deny that those routines very much included Draco.

This next week would be devoted to finishing up all projects that were due. Best to focus on all of that and not on what she was powerless to change.

All these thoughts were percolating in Hermione’s head as she walked, apparently oblivious to everything around her, from the library back to Holywell. Hunched down against the chill wind, she was so wrapped up in thought that she failed to notice the very solid body directly in her path as she neared her staircase entrance.

Two hands braced themselves against her upper arms suddenly, halting her progress forward. Annoyed, she sputtered, “Just what are you…” and saw a pair of grey eyes laughing down at her.

“ _Oh_ ,” she huffed, nettled, but secretly glad, too. “It’s _you_.”

“Well spotted, my dear Granger. Your powers of observation stagger me sometimes. Where are you off to, anyway?” His eyes bright, he gave her a cocky grin as he stood back, hands shoved once again into his pockets against the cold, his red, white and maroon scarf wound around his neck. His nose and cheeks were quite rosy.

“Back to my room actually. Been at the library for the last three hours. I’m all in!” Hermione sighed. “What about you then?”

“Oh, I’ve been reading in my room all day. Hodges’ **Dark Age Economics**. Began to feel rather like a mole finally. Had to get out for a bit or I’d have gone completely round the bend and cross-eyed.” He paused, thinking. “You do know,” he said suddenly, “that Allen wants our essay Thursday morning. That gives us--”

“Four days, yes, I know,” Hermione groaned. “I’ve written a fair bit of my half, but we still have one major section to go over.”

They walked on in silence for a couple of minutes, stopping at the entrance to Staircase 2.

“Look,” he said suddenly, perking up. “What about this: we could walk for a while and then stop somewhere along the way for a coffee and do a bit of work. It’d make a nice change from being stuck in our rooms. Run upstairs and get your books and meet me here in five minutes, yeah?”

Hermione thought for a moment and decided that a brisk walk combined with a working coffee break was precisely what she needed just then. She nodded brightly, disappearing inside just long enough to gather up several books and her notes. Then she happily looped her arm through his proffered one, and they headed out of Hertford and south, towards Radcliffe Square.

They stopped for a minute in front of the famed Radcliffe Camera, a round, Palladian-style building that dated back to 1749. Currently it housed collections from the Bodleian in English, History and Theology. Both Hermione and Draco had had occasion to utilise its resources, as much of the recommended secondary source material for their courses was to be found there.

Now they gazed up at the remarkable building, shading their eyes as they squinted against the sun.

“Fantastic, isn’t it?” Hermione murmured. “That’s the thing, really—nearly every building here has a history all its own. And many of them are quite a lot older, even, than this one.”

 

  
The Radcliffe Camera and St. Mary’s Church, Radcliffe Square

 

Draco gave the building an appraising look and nodded. “Did you know that the Camera was Tolkien’s model for Sauron’s temple to Morgoth at Númenor?”

Hermione turned to look at him in astonishment. “Really?”

“The gods’ truth. There’s probably all sorts of stuff in **Lord of the Rings** modelled on places or even people he knew here. Intriguing, don’t you think?” He kicked a pebble idly and then held out his arm once again. “Shall we?”

They continued, turning into the High Street and eventually finding themselves at The Rose. Hermione smiled to herself as they turned in automatically, both of one mind, to get out of the cold. She remembered that day the first week of term— seemed like ages ago, though it was a matter of mere weeks— when they’d first come here together.

Draco must have been remembering it too. “Two café au laits and two lemon raspberry squares, please,” he told the waitress.

“Just what I wanted. However did you know?” Hermione teased.

“You wound me, Granger,” he replied melodramatically. “I am a very sentimental man where food is concerned.”

“Touching,” she muttered, and they laughed as they sat down together with their food and hot drinks, and for a few minutes, refreshed themselves silently, the heat of the tall, porcelain cups bringing feeling back to their chilled fingertips.

Eventually, Hermione put down her fork, licking her upper lip delicately. “Mmm.” She gazed around at the cheery interior of the café and then at the busy street beyond the plate-glass window in front. “This is nice. I really needed to get out for a bit. Thanks, Malfoy.”

He grinned, replying airily, “Don’t thank me. I was being entirely selfish.”

At her questioning glance, he explained. “Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it. A bracing walk and refreshments in the company of a beautiful and brainy girl—the pleasure is mine, I assure you.” She blushed, and he gave her hand a quick squeeze, letting his own rest there for just a moment beyond that before withdrawing it again.

“And now, Granger,” he announced, “I rather think we’ve skived off this project long enough. Sooner we get to it, the sooner we’re bloody well finished. And as much as I’ve savoured the intellectual challenges you’ve set me—and believe me, love, I _have_ \--” He leaned in a bit closer, his breath warming her ear. “I can think of other ways we could be spending our time that might be even _more_ fun.”

His mouth found her earlobe and he caught its tip between his teeth, giving it a small nip followed by a light, soothing flick of his tongue that caused her to shiver slightly. Then he sat back, folding his arms, just a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Um…” Hermione murmured absently, still preoccupied with the tingling sensation his mouth had left on her ear. Her fingers wandered there of their own volition and she touched her earlobe briefly. He was leaning back in his chair and watching her, still smiling lazily, his eyes hooded.

“Right!” she said, just a bit too briskly as she tried vainly to collect her thoughts.

He laughed out loud then.

“I… um… shut _up_ , Malfoy!... Oh, _bugger it!_ ”

And with that, she leaned suddenly across the table, grasped his face between her palms, and planted a firm, prolonged, and decidedly passionate kiss directly on his mouth. Caught unawares, his eyes opened very wide for a moment before drifting closed.

Pulling away, she sat back down, dusted her hands off and smiled, satisfied.

“Right! Now _that’s_ out of the way, maybe we can finally get   
down to work!”

She busied herself opening her books and sorting through her notes, leaving her tutorial partner pleasantly gobsmacked, his mouth slightly open like a guppy.

 _Well, fuck me, Granger! Didn’t know you had it in you!_

 

*

 

It was hungry work. A round of frothy cappuccinos, one apple tart and a slice of cherry cake later, they were in the thick of a very productive discussion. Notes and texts were arranged in small piles all over the table, making a small sea of paper around the islands of crockery.

“I think,” Draco was saying, “ that we can make an excellent case for certain translations allowing a more sympathetic view of Grendel. I noticed something very interesting in Rebsamen, did you? His earlier prose version shows a lot more compassion than his later verse translation.”

“Yes, I saw that as well!” Hermione said excitedly, and began rapidly thumbing through her index cards. “He says… here it is: ‘he hissed and tugged, yearning towards the dark fens and meres beyond the world of men, afraid now that he might never return to that region.’ This is Beowulf talking, of course, so clearly, he’s very aware of Grendel’s fear. And a word like ‘yearning’ humanises him, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Draco agreed. “But in his later version, there’s no indication at all that Beowulf or the poet as narrator has any awareness of Grendel’s feelings. And just look at the ways Grendel’s referred to in Rebsamen’s poem translation: ‘that monster,’ ‘fiend-soul,’ ‘hell’s messenger,’ ‘giant ravager,’ ‘his damned hell-soul,’ ’his fiend’s mindthoughts,’ ‘his loathsome body,’ ‘that sinful life.’” Draco shook his head. “This is a clear portrait of Grendel as an irredeemable monster, damned for all time. It’s very harsh and unforgiving. I wonder why his reading of the poem changed so radically over twenty years? Unless he feels justified in showing a very different point of view, depending on who’s narrating?” He sat back, his gaze clouding briefly.

Hermione had been looking down at her notes and had not noticed the momentary change in his expression. “I can’t imagine,” she replied, pulling out several index cards. “But what you’ve said is spot on. I mean, look at Heaney in contrast. Right here, for instance: ‘they kept striking out on every side, seeking to cut straight to the soul.’ Lehmann’s version has it ‘seeking his soul,’ and Porter’s, which is supposedly the closest to the original, is ‘Grendel’s soul to seek.’ So-- what does all this talk of Grendel’s soul suggest, anyway? _I_ think,” she finished, leaning towards Draco, her expression animated, “it presumes that Grendel _has_ a soul to begin with, which is a lot more than monsters who are supposedly evil incarnate are generally granted, especially in works written with a heavily Christian slant, like this one was.”

“So—if Grendel has a soul, then there’s always the _possibility_ of redemption, isn’t there,” Draco said slowly. “But—we don’t see that at all in Rebsamen’s verse translation, do we. There, Grendel is ‘rejected by God,’ ‘measured by his sins.’”

He sat back, thinking. “Compare that to Heaney: ‘he who had harrowed the hearts of men with pain and affliction in former times and had given offence to God…’ Very different take, isn’t it! ‘Rejected’ is so much more final. Lehmann has it that Grendel was ‘foe to God,’ Porter says, ‘he clashed with God,’ and Rogers’ version is ‘in contention with God,’ very much like the other two. God isn’t even mentioned in Rebsamen’s prose version, strangely. And Donaldson—he writes, ‘at war with God.’ So four out of seven set Grendel up as an adversary to this Muggle god, one of those putting Grendel in the position of having offended, which sort of hints at a wrong that could possibly be forgiven under the right circumstances. Being at war with a deity doesn’t theoretically preclude the possibility of redemption, does it. The poem in most of the translations seems to present Grendel as evil, yes, but sadly so, and damned for making such a complete bollocks of everything.” He tapped his pen against his cheek thoughtfully. “No, wait…hang on a minute. That’s not all of it. We’re forgetting something important here. Grendel is the way he is because--”

“Because he’s got the mark of Cain—yes, _right!_ ” Hermione chimed, in, her eyes alight with sudden understanding. “He was _born_ doomed, wasn’t he! Gods, you’re right, Malfoy! He was from a race of so-called ‘bad breeds—trolls and elves and monsters,’ the ‘kin of Cain,’ Donaldson says. Heaney writes…” Hurriedly she thumbed through her text, flipping back to the beginning pages. “…‘He had dwelt for a time in misery among the banished monsters, Cain’s clan… out of the curse of his, Cain’s, exile, there sprang phantoms…’ And look at these: ‘a powerful demon nursed a hard grievance,’ ‘waged his lonely war.’ And then Donaldson: ‘the fierce spirit painfully endured hardship for a time,’ ‘unhappy creature,’ ‘the terrible walker-alone.’ I mean, look at the implications of that language! He’s alienated, he’s exiled, and he’s miserable. And he’s born to a race of monsters. So yes, Grendel is a demon, but he’s in a situation not of his own making. He has no choice…”

“…but to be who he is and do what he does,” Draco finished quietly.

Hermione grabbed a book and flipped it open, searching for a passage she’d suddenly remembered. “It’s just so obvious that he has to go through with his part in the whole horrid thing as it plays itself out. It’s fore-ordained, isn’t it. It’s a stacked deck. We see the same thing again, in the lines telling about Grendel’s coming death. Heaney says: “…his going away out of this world and the days of his life would be agony to him, and his alien spirit would travel far into fiends’ keeping.’ And listen to Donaldson: ‘His departure to death from the time of this life was to be wretched; and the alien spirit was to travel far off into the power of fiends.’ It’s really _sad!_ Where’s his choice? He’s born into a dreadful life, forced to live out his destiny as a monster, and then dies in a truly terrible way, his soul cursed and delivered into the keeping of fiends! Even Rebsamen’s prose version captures that horrible tragic quality: ‘…Grendel, a horrible hole where his right shoulder had been, was free at last to lurch bleeding his life out across the moor to find his home again before he died.’ I mean, really, can you see that as anything _but_ tragic and horribly sad?”

She laid her hands down on the table and looked solemnly at Draco, her eyes huge.

“No,” Draco mused, “but here’s where a modern sensibility could be shifting the poet’s intent. Because even though _we_ see the inherent unfairness of the situation, I don’t think it would have seemed at all unfair or even particularly tragic a thousand years ago when the poem was written. Whether or not Grendel had a choice, I mean.” He paused a moment, leaning in closer to Hermione, whose expression was as intent on the idea being worked out as his own. “What happens to him would have seemed… _inevitable_. A necessary and natural and quite satisfactory consequence. He was damned, whether his behaviour was pre-destined or not! Which doesn’t say much either for the notion of forgiveness _or_ free will, does it,” he concluded, a bit sourly.

“No, that’s true,” Hermione agreed. “But I think those were sort of murky issues back then, weren’t they?”

He nodded. “History tells us that early Christianity was very hard-line. No grey areas. Look at the Crusades and the Inquisition, not to mention the massive witch hunts all over Europe and then in America as late as the 1690s. Look at what happened to pagan Britain two thousand years ago. Over time, the Old Ways were wiped out in forced conversions, or remade in the new religion’s image. I’ve been reading a lot about all that this term.”

Hermione smiled grimly. “Yes. Exactly. Based on this point alone, I think it’s fair to say that Rebsamen’s poem translation probably comes closest in spirit to the original. Because contrary to the way the original poem would most likely have been received, it really seems that all the other _modern_ translations we’ve looked at mean us to view this monster with a certain degree of pity, empathy even. He’s done terrible things, true, but we feel—I did, anyway—very sad, in a way, at his end. He’s a truly tragic figure, I think, don’t you? He never really had a chance!” Hermione looked up at Draco with large, sad eyes as the power of this realisation struck her.

“Agreed,” he said finally, laying his palms on the table and looking down and away from her gaze, still stricken as the deeper implications of the poem continued to resonate. It was the conclusion he had already come to himself. _It’s true. The poor bastard never had any chance at all_.

 

*

 

They decided to spend the entire next afternoon in the final writing phase, and then proof each other’s sections for whatever edits and revisions might be needed.

The walk back to the college was a quiet, reflective one. There was much to digest.

 

  
Original first page of **Beowulf** , and The Sea Stallion, a Viking long ship

 

*

 

25 November  
Sunday

 

They had begun working just after a quick lunch in hall. Now, three hours later, they sat in Draco’s room, side by side at his desk, tapping away furiously on their laptops. They’d read through each other’s rough drafts, made suggestions and corrections, discussed changes—sometimes rather heatedly, both of them fairly stubborn and requiring strong persuasion—and now the two halves of the final version were gradually emerging.

Draco had undertaken the writing of that final section on the poet’s portrayal of Grendel and its various interpretations. As soon as they’d arrived at his room after lunch, he’d silently handed it to her, turning doggedly to the work of proofreading her pages and pointedly avoiding glancing at her face as she read.

Finally, she put down the pages and walked over to where he sat hunched over the desk, sitting down quietly on the bed beside his chair.

He looked at her finally, with eyes that were guarded and yet seemed vulnerable somehow.

“Draco.” Her voice was soft but fervent. “Draco, this is _extraordinary_. It’s the best part of the essay. It’s really powerful! I’m… I’m _stunned_.”

“It’s good, then?” he asked hesitantly, unbelieving. “It’s really all right? I was afraid I might have got off track, been too--” He stopped, checking himself. “Well, that maybe it wasn’t scholarly enough. Thought it might have lost its objectivity.”

“Oh, _no!_ ” Hermione shook her head vehemently. “The argument is just incredibly passionate, that’s all. You stayed on point the whole time. But… oh…” She stopped, feeling the beginnings of tears unaccountably pricking her lashes and blinking them away quickly. She swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t change a _thing_ , Malfoy. Not _anything_. It’s bloody marvellous.”

For the first time since lunch, Draco smiled openly, and the tension that he’d worn like a cloak dissipated. From that point on, they simply worked, undistracted, for the rest of the afternoon and into the early hours of the evening.

By eight o’clock, the essay was essentially finished. It had been a marathon effort lasting seven very intensive hours, and now Draco flopped down, exhausted, on his bed. Hermione stood and stretched, flexing her neck and shoulders to get the kinks out.

“Merlin, I’m knackered!” she sighed, and Draco groaned his agreement, an arm flung across his eyes.

Hermione went to the sink and turned on the taps, splashing her face with gouts of cold water and running wet fingers through her hair.

“This feels wonderful, so refreshing,” she sighed. “Malfoy, you ought to try it!”

“No thanks,” came the muffled reply.

“No, really, you’ll feel loads better!” Hermione insisted.

“I said _no thanks_ , Granger!”

Hermione grinned, and, filling a cup with cold water, she moved stealthily to Draco’s bedside. His eyes were closed.

Dipping her fingers into the cup, she playfully sprinkled a few drops onto his upturned face.

No response.

So she repeated the action, this time scooping up a small handful of cold water and sending the droplets showering down over him.

Still no response.

Well, surely he’d felt _that_. He couldn’t possibly be asleep, not _really_. She tried one last time, dipping her hand well into the cup and splashing the rest of the water on Draco’s face and neck, more than she’d really meant to.

His hand shot up and grabbed her wrist, forcing the cup to clatter to the floor, and then he caught hold of her other wrist as well, yanking her flush against his chest. She went down with a surprised squeak and found herself nose to nose with a very wet Draco Malfoy, who was more than ready, now, to play her game.

“Thought I said no thanks,” he growled. “Do you know what happens to little girls who disobey?”

Teetering on the verge of a giggling fit, Hermione shook her head.

“They… get… _spanked!_ ” Holding her away from him for a moment, he sat up quickly and then she found herself suddenly sprawled across his lap, his hand hovering above her bum.

Immediately, she opened her mouth to protest but something stopped her. Curiosity, perhaps, or a sudden, careless urge to live dangerously for a change, or the fact that she found, to her own surprise, that she quite liked the sensation of being turned over Draco’s knee. Feeling faintly pervy, her skin prickling in anticipation, she decided she would play along.

Draco ran his hand through his damp hair, pushing his fringe out of his eyes and then wiping his face. She turned to look daggers at him over her shoulder and he grinned wickedly.

“Now this is what I call just desserts, Granger. Me, you, and a positively delectable view of your lovely… er… assets. How very _convenient_ that you chose to wear this little skirt today.” He laughed softly as she wiggled a bit, all the while hiding a grin of her own.

“Now then. Five, I think. Yes, that should do it. One for each time I said no, and three more for each time you did it anyway.”

“Malfoy! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” he drawled. “Watch me.”

His hand rose and came down on her skirt-covered bum with a firm little smack.

“One.”

She twisted around in a half-hearted attempt to free herself.

“Malfoy! S-stop!” She began to laugh now, despite herself.

Again, his hand rose, descending on the rounded curve of her rear end, but just a trifle more forcefully this time. She jumped a bit at the contact, her skin erupting in a mass of goose bumps.

“Two.”

Draco paused a moment and smiled languidly. Perhaps it was time to play just a bit more creatively. Turnabout was such fun.

His hand came to rest on the backs of her knees, covered by black tights, and slowly, deliberately, began an upward journey, halting just as it arrived at the boundary of her skirt’s hem. He gave her inner thigh a small pinch and then an experimental, tickling stroke, and she shivered under his touch, letting out a tiny gasp.

And then he returned his hand to its original position, raised it high, and brought the flat of it down just slightly harder than the last time. This time it stung a bit—but a very pleasant tingling between her legs that had begun when he’d first touched her thighs now intensified.

Draco noted with satisfaction the way she squirmed, pressing her thighs together as she began to breathe more shallowly. He was also aware, increasingly, of another rather pleasurable consequence of having Granger wriggling around on his lap. He wondered if she’d noticed yet.

“ _Oh!_ ”

She had.

“Two more, my very disobedient girl,” he said with mock sternness. “Here’s the first.”

And with that, his hand left her bum and returned to it with a pronounced smack, so that she felt the sting right through the material of the skirt. Immediately, he followed it up with another languorous stroke of her inner thighs.

That _other_ burn was growing exponentially with every touch, and now it was accompanied by a sudden dampness and odour that were mortifying to her. Knowing these signs for what they were, he couldn’t resist a tiny smile of satisfaction.

“One more,” he said teasingly. “Last one, darling. You’ve been _very_ brave.”

The final smack resounded like a shot, but the brief smarting was forgotten immediately, supplanted by the very pleasant sensations now positively humming between her legs. She noticed, too, that the stiffening lump she’d felt beneath her earlier was now positively jutting out and poking into her pelvis, and seemed to be growing to match the increased arousal she felt. She fishtailed her hips a bit and heard him draw in a quick breath as he shifted in his seat. _Ha! Two can play at_ that _game_ , darling!

Quite suddenly, he rolled her over, cradling her in his arms.

“And now, of course, I must kiss it all better,” he murmured, lowering his head to drop a light kiss on her mouth. When he pulled back, there was a moment when all she could see were his eyes, dove-grey and so soft as they regarded her, and then the moment passed and there was laughter there once again.

“Well?” he asked then, his lips twitching despite his attempt to be stern. “Have you learnt your lesson, young lady? What have you to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” she whispered, gazing up at him with huge, limpid eyes, and then she grinned saucily. “ _Not_.”

In a flash, she was off his lap and dancing lightly out of his reach, leaving him grabbing at empty air.

“Very clever,” Draco laughed, flopping back onto his pillows. “Tie.”

Meanwhile, Hermione had returned to the sink and mirror and was attempting to fix her tousled hair. She turned to him with a piquant smile. "I think _I_ was the winner, really...”

She returned to the bed and sat down beside him. “Look, I’m very sorry I got you so wet. I didn’t mean to! That last time was an accident, honestly!”

“Hmm!” he huffed, crossing his arms and trying without success to look disgruntled. “S’okay. I _suppose_.”

“Look, let me make it up to you! There’s somewhere I’ve been wanting us to go. Tonight would be perfect. Come on!” She grabbed his hand and stood up, pulling him to his feet and surveying him critically. “You might want to tidy up a bit first though.”

“I was perfectly presentable before you dumped water all over me, Granger!” he complained good-naturedly, peering at his reflection in the mirror before giving his hair a quick combing.

Ten minutes later, they were on their way out of the college and headed along Broad Street.

“Where in Merlin’s name are we going, Granger? Are you kidnapping me?” Draco joked, quickening his pace to keep up with Hermione.

“Patience, Malfoy, we’re nearly there. I hope you’re hungry,” she replied, taking his hand and pulling him along.

Turning right on Magdalen Street East, they headed north to where the road merged with St Giles.

“Come on,” Hermione said again somewhat enigmatically, crossing the street and pointing. “It’s not far.”

They walked on a bit further, passing St John’s College on the right. Draco was still mystified about where exactly Hermione was taking him. That is, until they’d passed Pusey Street and he could see the next block of shops ahead on the left. Ah, _there_. That _had_ to be it.

 _Brilliant_.

 

 

  
Left to right, numbers 53 through 48, St Giles

 

 

 

“The Bird and Baby! Clever girl,” he grinned. “However did you know?”

Hermione smiled shyly, delighted at his obvious pleasure in her choice. “I knew because… well, because I’ve been wanting to come here myself and for the same reasons,” she said quietly. “Come on, let’s go in.”

The mid-17th-century pub was long and narrow, divided up into warrens of smaller rooms that opened out into a modern conservatory at the rear.

They approached the bar and waited, while the barmaid finished serving another customer.

"Well," Hermione said brightly, opening the menu as they waited. "I wonder what's good here?" Scanning the listings, she bit her lip distractedly, and then nodded. "Mm… think I'm in the mood for the steak and ale pie. What about you?"

Draco considered for a moment, his brow drawn down in concentration, and then he looked up, raising his hand to signal the barmaid.

"What do you recommend tonight?" he asked, flashing an especially charming smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes and grinned. Typical.

The barmaid, a woman who looked to be in her early thirties, smiled back coquettishly, her hand on her hip. "Well, the lasagne's always very nice. And people seem to enjoy the bangers and mash. But if I were you, love" --she leaned in close-- "I'd go for the fish and chips tonight. Just got the fish in this afternoon. Very fresh indeed. The cook's outdone himself with it. " She straightened, nodding, and winked. "I'll be back in a sec to take your orders."

"If I were you, _love_ , I'd go for the fish and chips," Hermione simpered once they were alone, and then snorted. "Gods, Malfoy, it never fails! Have you always had such a devastating effect on women?"

Draco shrugged carelessly, smirking. "Ever since I was about two, or so my mother tells me. The first one was my nanny. Hopelessly in love with me, and me not even quite out of nappies. And then there was…"

Hermione held up her hand, rolling her eyes again and giggling. "Enough! I get the picture!"

The barmaid chose that moment to return, and taking out her pad and a pencil, stood poised to take their order. When she finished writing it all down, she looked expectantly at them.

"What can I get you to drink, then?"

Draco looked at Hermione. Firewhiskey and butterbeer were clearly not on offer, and pub crawls were not something either of them had yet indulged in, in their short time here. He didn't relish revealing his inexperience with Muggle drink. This time it was Hermione who smiled at the barmaid.

"Anything really special you can recommend?"

"Well now…" the older woman began, tapping the pencil against her bottom lip thoughtfully. "We did just get in a new line of ales, and so far some very good reports on them. Odd names, though. Dragonsmoke Stout for one. I like that one—very nice, bit chocolatey. Then there's Glutlusty and Dark Raven. Oh, and Grendel's Winter Ale. It's only available in the cold weather, apparently. That one just came in and I tasted it myself tonight. Lovely stuff."

Draco and Hermione stared at each other.

"Um… who makes those ales?" Hermione asked, poking Draco lightly with her foot.

"Oh, the uh… Beowulf Brewing Company. Out of Staffordshire, they are. Fancy giving one of 'em a try?"

 _The Beowulf Brewing Company_. This was too good to be true.

"Grendel's Winter Ale," they said together, and she nudged him again, grinning.

"Right, back in a tick," the barmaid smiled.

"Can you believe this?" Hermione exclaimed. "I mean, really, what are the odds? This has to be an omen for the essay, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely," Draco agreed, straight-faced. "Must be."

"Prat! I was being _serious!_ " Hermione laughed, about to give him a third little nudge with her foot when he swerved to the side and held up a hand.

"Enough! My shins are already bruised! One more of those and I shall have to put you over my knee again, woman!"

Hermione glanced at him slyly. "Promise?"

They were still laughing when the barmaid returned with their drinks. She set two tall glasses down on the old, wooden counter top and then leaned in as Hermione went to whisper something in her ear. She smiled and pointed, and then said, "Go right in and make yourselves comfy. Shouldn't be too long."

"This way," Hermione said, taking Draco's hand and leading him into one very cosy room.

"This is it," she announced. "The Rabbit Room. This is where they met every week for years and years."

Draco looked around.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The chapter is too long to fit all together. Part 2 will be up ASAP.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely and dedicated betas, kazfeist and mister_otter, for your ready help, an ear to listen, wonderful editorial support, and friendship. Thanks, too, to floorcoaster, for help with a couple of sticky, last-minute questions!
> 
> Tremendous thanks, as always, to the very kind and generous people at HP Britglish. Their very informative answers to my many questions continue to help me fine-tune tiny details of the story. I'd like to thank Alison (orientalmoons) in particular, for taking so much time to email me with additional suggestions, all of which have been great and very much appreciated!
> 
> Ongoing thanks to moonjameskitten for her scrumptious banner! (It's my desktop now, Sathy, for inspiration as I write!)
> 
> I have been known to make up wizarding drinks, but I promise I did _not_ make up the Beowulf Brewing Company of Staffordshire! It is absolutely real, as are the ales mentioned by name in the chapter: Grendel’s Winter Ale, Dragonsmoke Stout, Glutlusty, and Dark Raven. These are only a few of the many fine ales they make. For more information, visit their website at:
> 
> http://beowulfbrewery.co.uk/aboutus.aspx
> 
>  
> 
> Aside from the texts cited in the bibliography at the end of Chapter 4, the following sources were of help to me:
> 
>  
> 
> http://www.beowulftranslations.net/index.shtml
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beowulf


	7. Revelations, Part Two

It was a low-ceilinged room, just a bit dim, a cheery fire in the small hearth set into the paneled wall at one end. Above that, under a large clock, there were several framed photos of various members of the Inklings, as well as a letter from them praising the innkeeper’s excellent ham. To the right and just above them was a recessed, nearly triangular bookshelf containing a number of volumes standing upright. Several wall lamps cast strategically placed pools of warm light.

They sat near the fire with their drinks, not speaking for several minutes as its warmth thawed their fingers and toes, the hum of conversation from nearby tables rising up around them.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said softly. “It’s perfect. Just what I needed.”

Her quick smile was as brilliant as the fire, and he basked in its warmth and light.

The ale was dark, rich, and full-bodied, perfect for a cold night like this.

Draco held up his glass. “To the essay!”

“To the essay!” Hermione echoed, and they clinked their glasses together and took a healthy swallow.

She was about to take another when he gestured towards her face. “You, uh…you’ve got a bit of stuff…on your lip…”

Hermione picked up her napkin, about to dab at her upper lip, when he leaned in closer. “Allow me.”

Expecting a quick wipe with a napkin, she closed her eyes. When his tongue brushed over her lips instead, she opened her eyes wide for a moment, and then she went very still.

“Mm,” she said faintly, touching her fingertips to the spot, as he sat back in his chair, faintly flushed. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he murmured, and immediately took a quick swallow of his own beer. Somehow she had the power to render him a bit shy and self-conscious at the oddest moments—he, who’d ordinarily never had such a problem where girls were concerned, had never before worried about whether his attentions would be welcomed or how they’d be interpreted or what his feelings might really be at any given moment.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, enjoying the ale and the warmth of the fire. Gradually, though, Hermione noticed that Draco seemed a bit preoccupied, distant.

“Something wrong?’ she asked quietly. “I thought…”

He turned his head, brought back out of the reverie he’d been lost in for the moment. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m having a wonderful time, honestly! It’s just…”

“Just…?” she interjected gently.

“Well,” he began, “I was just thinking about…the whole Grendel thing, actually.”

“Mmm.” Hermione nodded. “I know. His story really moved me. What were you thinking, exactly?”

Draco lifted his glass and took a small swallow. “Just about his lack of choice. It’s as if he were a pawn, really, isn’t it. You said it yourself. He was playing a part, the part he was _born_ to play, and there was no way out for him. As if, you know, there had to be a foil for Beowulf to play off, evil against good.”

“Well, yes, that’s true.”

“But—then where’s the hope? The possibility for change? Yes, I know, I know—if he had changed, then where would the story be? Or at the very least, it would be a very different story, wouldn’t it. I understand that. It’s just…well…I know what it’s like to be born to certain expectations, to a role you get moulded into.”

Hermione looked at him closely as he, in turn, glanced quickly away. His expression remained composed, though his eyes betrayed a turmoil she could tell he was trying very hard to hold in check. A small muscle pulsed in his jaw.

"He was marked, you know? The whole mark of Cain thing. The destiny he had to live out as one of the offspring of a cursed line. How do you live with that? I'll tell you. You just throw yourself into it even more, knowing that nobody will expect anything else of you anyway, or even believe it if you try to break away. Even once you begin to doubt and have regrets. And I did."

There was a pause.

He looked pointedly at her for a long moment and then glanced away, his voice becoming very quiet. "I still do."

Her eyes opened a bit wider. She gazed speculatively at him, and he flushed before continuing.

"Anyway... you just… you just play your part to the hilt, don't you. Really relish it. Do what everyone has always expected you to do all your life. Until you just can't anymore. And then it's worse."

“How?” she whispered, almost not breathing in the stillness that seemed to have descended around their table like a curtain.

“Because then you can’t get away from what’s inside your own head. You carry it around with you all the time, waking _and_ sleeping. Waking and sleeping…” he repeated, his voice trailing off. The nightmares that still plagued him -- could he ever tell her about those?

“And then?” she prompted gently.

“And then… and then when you do what it is they want you to do, it’s a thousand times more sickening.” He laughed, but it was a bitter, hollow sound. “I almost think Beowulf did Grendel a favour, really. Put him out of his misery.”

Hermione let out the breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding. Her voice trembled. “Oh, Draco…how did you deal with…with all that? What did you do?”

“I did what I was told,” he answered dully. “I had to, or it would have been the worse for me. My father and my dear Aunt Bellatrix, who I am convinced was totally insane by then—there was no dealing with them except by going along. At least…”

He paused. Now or never.

“At least to their faces.”

Hermione drew a sharp breath. “ _What do you mean?_ ”

“I betrayed them. I betrayed them all. I had to, finally. I was going insane with it. The torture, the killings. I suppose it must have shown on my face. Suppose I must have looked a complete wreck after a while. Snape took me aside one day. Told me…well, he took me into his confidence. Told me something about himself that nobody else knew or even suspected. Could not be _allowed_ to suspect, or else his life was forfeit. I think you can guess what I mean.”

She nodded.

“He offered me a chance. And I took it.”

“Draco,” she breathed, the colour draining from her face. “Are you saying…”

“Yes. I began to pass the odd bit of information to Snape whenever I could. He found his own ways of getting what I told him to the Order, unbeknownst to any of you. Nobody else knew.”

“So you…” Hermione began faintly. “You had already turned before Harry and I were held prisoner in your house… A long time before?”

He nodded.

“And… that’s why you acted the way you did, isn’t it… You didn't want to tell.”

Another nod. “I _hated_ having to do it. But I had no choice. He...my father...couldn’t know what I’d been doing. And Auntie Bella…” He shuddered. “I don’t want to think about what would have happened to you…” _What very nearly did._

“Or _you!_ ” she interjected.

He nodded wearily. “Or me, yes, if the truth had come out. I had betrayed my family, Hermione. They already despised me for my lack of enthusiasm, my reluctance, over what I had to do. If they’d known how much further I had gone… I _know_ it would have gone that much worse for you… and Potter. And me? I’d have been dead a hundred times over.” He paused. “Even now, my father still hasn’t forgiven me. Nor will he ever, I suspect. Though I don’t know why that should still matter to me now,” he added bitterly, almost as an after-thought.

Hermione studied her hands, folded before her on the table and took a measured breath. “Draco, I was there when Snape died. I saw him give Harry his memories right before. Later, Harry told me what he’d seen in the Pensieve.” She paused. “Snape was acting on Dumbledore’s orders from the beginning.”

Draco looked at her, his face bloodless. “You mean… you mean even when…”

“Even when he killed Dumbledore, yes. Even then. Dumbledore was already dying, Draco. And somehow, he knew Voldemort was planning to use you to punish your parents. Dumbledore didn’t want that for you. So he charged Snape with protecting you. And… and he m-made Snape promise to kill him when the time came.” She looked stricken suddenly, a lone tear sliding down her cheek and her next words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before! I wanted to, I _did_ \-- but I… I didn’t know if it was my place. And I was afraid to bring it up before you were ready to talk about it. It seemed so painful for you the last time…”

“I…” Draco floundered, unable to think. The events of that awful night in the tower came flooding back into his thoughts in a painful blur. Dumbledore had _not_ been surprised to learn of Voldemort’s threats, he remembered with sudden, awful clarity. The headmaster had tried to explain, to persuade Draco to accept his help, but to no avail. Terrified and certain that there was no way out for him, Draco had not believed. And Severus… “Severus never told me any of that. I thought… I just knew he was trying to help, to give me a way out. I didn’t _know_ …”

And now so much made sense that had not fit before. Draco had found out about his mother’s desperate request for protection from Snape, the Unbreakable Vow he’d made to her. What he hadn’t known was how—so very ironically, he now understood—that vow had played quite neatly into the larger plans in which Professor Dumbledore had apparently involved Snape so deeply. All the pins had lined up very neatly in a row, it seemed. Now he felt a sudden, painful clutching at his heart when he thought of Severus Snape, who had sacrificed so much to help him help himself-- and of Albus Dumbledore, the man he’d despised for so many years in echo of his father’s sneering disdain. The man who’d wanted, to the end of his days, to protect him-- to save him, really. He felt slightly ill, and buried his face in his hands.

Instantly, Hermione was at his side, dragging her chair over to his.

“I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” she murmured over and over, her arm going tightly around his shoulder, her forehead pressed against his hair. She could feel him shivering slightly. “It’s okay, it’s okay now…” She held him that way for a time, until he grew still in her arms.

Just then, their dinner arrived. Awkwardly, Hermione stood, pushing her chair back, and sat down as the plates of steaming food were set before them. She could see that Draco’s appetite had fled. Hers had gone along with it.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, until finally Draco speared a chip with his fork and brought it to his mouth, smiling at her a bit shakily.

“I’m okay, Hermione. Please. Let’s… let’s eat, all right?”

She smiled back and resolutely plunged her fork into the flaky crust of her steak and ale pie, the fissure sending up a fragrant cloud of steam from inside it.

 

*

 

Dinner was a subdued affair after that. There was much for both of them to think about. They remained lost in their own thoughts for much of the walk back to their college. As they approached the Bridge of Sighs, Draco caught Hermione’s hand in his and they stopped.

“Being here,” he said quietly, “well… I had to come. I _needed_ this. More than anything. Nobody knows me here, except for you. To everybody else, I’m just another student, no fucked-up past dragging me down. They know nothing of all that. I feel like I can _breathe_ here, you know? Start again.”

She nodded, her throat closing.

“And… well… now, there’s something else too. Something I didn’t expect. A second chance in another way.” He tipped her chin up and looked at her intently. “Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded again, swallowing hard, the tears beginning to slip from the corners of her eyes.

“Will you… will you come back to my room tonight, Hermione? Please… let me love you. I want you so badly.” In the glow of the street lamps, her dark eyes were luminous. His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “I ache for you.”

She moved into his arms, resting her head on his chest. His heart beat wildly against her cheek, vibrating into her very skin.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “I will.”

 

*

 

The only light in the room came from a streetlamp shining in through the window, its yellow light diminished and softened by the curtains. Draco and Hermione stood facing each other in the darkness, and the air seemed thick, suddenly, and hard to breathe.

He reached out to smooth a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingertips brushing gently against the skin of her temple. They lingered there, soothing and calming. She stood quietly, letting him touch her, and gradually, his fingers moved from her temple down her cheek to her jaw and then to her throat, all the while feather-light and delicate.

“Come here,” he whispered, and she took a step closer, her chest rising and falling as she fought to steady her breathing.

His fingers had been resting against the hollow of her throat, and now they moved lightly down between her breasts as he bent his head and brought his mouth to hers. It was hardly their first kiss, but it seemed new in every possible way. There was a softness like velvet to his lips as they moved over hers now. One kiss, two, a third—all of them achingly tender and gentle. She sighed against his mouth, wanting more and still more, pressing against him with an increasing urgency, her own need for gentleness lessening in the face of the almost painful desire that was pushing everything else out of its way.

He felt her need. It was his need too.

Wrapping her in a swift embrace, he lifted her chin and hungrily reclaimed her mouth, all the while holding her close, wanting her not to feel embarrassed or regretful or frightened. Never, never that.

“Hermione,” he murmured raggedly, between kisses. “Hermione…”

A powerful, raw energy seemed to course through her at the sound of her name, chilling and electrifying her at the same time, and she clung to him. His hands swept up into her hair and he clutched it in both hands, greedily drinking her kisses down like a man parched for water.

Clothing suddenly seemed a small matter, an impediment easily banished. It was bare skin they craved, and somehow their clothing came away without any conscious effort or awareness of its absence. In the shadowy half-light, their nakedness was curiously innocent and beautiful to behold.

Draco drew Hermione down on the bed, and they knelt together, their bodies seemingly fused skin to skin, their hands traversing the varied pathways of arms, ribs, collarbones and spines, muscle and bone, the secrets of their flesh. No place was left unexplored.

And then he moved back for a moment and looked at her, really looked, for the first time since their rampant desire had exploded.

He caught his breath.

She was lovelier than he could have imagined.

“Gods,” he whispered, “ you take my breath away!”

Suddenly shy and self-conscious, she blushed and looked away, but he would not allow that and caught her chin, drawing her gaze back to his.

“Please, Hermione, you mustn’t,” he said urgently. “You are so beautiful. So incredibly lovely. More than I could possibly have guessed. And believe me” --he smiled-- “I’ve done some serious guessing!”

They both laughed and he opened his arms to her, drawing her close again. It was lovely, feeling his warm skin and the heartbeat just beneath it. She felt so safe. Slowly, he drew her down until they lay facing each other.

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” His words were like a prayer. “So long.”

The surging of her own heart was filling her ears and she nodded, closing her eyes as he crushed her against him, taking her mouth deeply, filling her soul as he moved against her. The smooth, solid heat of his erection pushed between her thighs, its slick tip teasing her, and instinctively, she opened her legs, wanting more.

It would be wonderful for her, he would make certain of that. Suddenly her pleasure was all he desired for himself.

He brought his mouth down to her breasts and suckled until their rosy peaks stood firm and erect, and then he lavished kisses and strokes of his tongue down her body—her ribcage, the small of her waist, her belly, the hollow of her navel—until he reached her upper thighs. He caressed their smooth flesh in a series of tiny kisses and little, teasing bites, until he was positioned before her maidenhead, already glistening for him.

There was a throbbing deep inside her now, and she desperately wanted it sated, and yet, there was a sweetness to the wait. Every part of her that he touched seemed newly alive. Feeling as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, she allowed him to part her thighs further, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath as she sensed him approaching, her skin positively on fire with anticipation.

And then suddenly he was _there_ , and glorious Morgana, it was like nothing she could have imagined. It was all heat and ice, softly sensuous and demanding, hungry and yet teasing, as his tongue and lips moved against her sensitive flesh, probing and licking, suckling and curling and thrusting again and again, until she was quite breathless.

Her climax came in a sudden rush of blinding, shuddering sensation, and afterwards, he moved quickly to cradle her. She lay boneless and overcome in his arms, as he stroked her cheek and kissed her softly, again and again.

“Merlin,” she said finally, her voice hushed. “That was… that was…” And then she fell silent, for once at a loss for words.

Draco smiled against her skin as he pressed his lips to her shoulder, resting his hand gently on her breast and gently teasing its nipple.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was. But there’s more.” He took her hand, brought it up to his lips, and kissed her palm. “Touch me, Hermione,” he said, his voice tremulous with his desire. “Please.”

A blush crept over her cheeks, but her desire to please him was stronger, and she allowed him to guide her hand down to his penis.

“Show me,” she said shyly.

He smiled and placed her hand at the base, wrapping her fingers around the shaft, and then gently drew her hand up in a smooth, fluid movement, skimming the weeping head once quickly and then bringing her now-slick palm back down its length.

“You can stroke here too,” he told her, placing her other hand on his balls, which felt lovely to her as she cupped them in a slow, tickling caress and stroked the fine, gold hair. He was a revelation to her.

And then Hermione did something unexpected, the spontaneity of which surprised both of them. Without thinking, she leaned down and kissed him _there_ \-- left a series of light kisses along his length until she reached the head, and then she delicately licked the pre-cum from it, eliciting a groan from him before she slid up his body to share it with him in a deep, soulful kiss.

There would be no more waiting now. Swiftly, he rolled them over and positioned himself between her legs, gazing down at her finally as she lay beneath him.

“Ready, love?”

The melting tenderness she saw in his eyes recalled to her the look she’d seen there earlier. It left her breathless with need and more than need.

She nodded, her heart pounding.

Yes. Yes. Oh _yes_.

Fingers trembling slightly, he opened her and then hesitated for just a moment.

“This might hurt a bit,” he said softly.

She nodded, and then he eased himself in most of the way, looking down at her again. At her tense smile, he gave a final thrust. She sucked in a breath, and he went quite still.

"I’m sorry,” he murmured, stroking her hair. "Just breathe, love. It’ll pass."

Moments later, it had. He felt her relaxing gradually, and then, as he began to move again within her, the walls of her flesh seemed to clench around him, molding themselves to him with their miraculous heat and slick elasticity. And then he began to move in earnest -- the imperative surging from his flesh to hers-- and with each thrust, she felt him filling her ever more deeply, reaching down deep inside her, turning her inside out, marking her.

Instinctively she wrapped her legs around him, pressing him tightly to her breasts and meeting his every thrust with a rocking, undulating rhythm that completed his own. He was moving so deeply inside her, now, that his flesh seemed to merge into hers, their shared heat searing them in the final moments before they both exploded, his climax triggering a second one for her.

She had been clutching him so tightly that her fingernails had left small, half-moon-shaped marks on his shoulders, and even now, she found she was still loath to let him go. His weight and the heat of his body and his soft breath as it tickled her ear were sweetness itself to her, and she wound her arms around him tightly, keeping him close. The sensation of him inside her was sweet too, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him there a bit longer if she could.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered, concerned, raising himself up on his elbows to look down at her.

She shook her head and drew him back down, kissing his damp hair as it fell about his face.

There were no words.

Both of them recognized without really understanding-- on a far deeper, more intrinsic level beyond the power of simple speech-- that something extraordinary had passed between them this night. It remained unarticulated. It was too new, too delicate, too unfamiliar and strange. This had been a profound rending -- of hearts, of flesh, of souls -- and a Making. It was the most potent of all magicks, in a sense, and the very oldest, and when the miracle of it happened, it was always in its own time and in its own way.

There would be a word for it, but not this night.

Limbs entangled, they slept deeply and did not dream.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to my lovely and dedicated betas, kazfeist and mister_otter, for your ready help, an ear to listen, wonderful editorial support, and friendship. Thanks, too, to floorcoaster, for help with a couple of sticky, last-minute questions!
> 
> Tremendous thanks, as always, to the very kind and generous people at HP Britglish. Their very informative answers to my many questions continue to help me fine-tune tiny details of the story. I'd like to thank Alison (orientalmoons) in particular, for taking so much time to email me with additional suggestions, all of which have been great and very much appreciated!
> 
> Ongoing thanks to moonjameskitten for her scrumptious banner! (It's my desktop now, Sathy, for inspiration as I write!)
> 
> I have been known to make up wizarding drinks, but I promise I did _not_ make up the Beowulf Brewing Company of Staffordshire! It is absolutely real, as are the ales mentioned by name in the chapter: Grendel’s Winter Ale, Dragonsmoke Stout, Glutlusty, and Dark Raven. These are only a few of the many fine ales they make. For more information, visit their website at:
> 
> http://beowulfbrewery.co.uk/aboutus.aspx
> 
>  
> 
> Aside from the texts cited in the bibliography at the end of Chapter 4, the following sources were of help to me:
> 
>  
> 
> http://www.beowulftranslations.net/index.shtml
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beowulf


	8. (Show Me) All the Words of Love

 

26 November  
Monday morning

 

Bars of sunlight dappled the jumble of bedclothes in which two prone bodies lay tangled. It was past eleven, and beyond the outer door of room 12 in Staircase 5, life surged busily forward as the new week got underway.

Somewhere, a door slammed and voices could be heard cheerfully yelling back and forth. One of the bodies in the bed stirred, and a pale, slender arm emerged from under the navy-blue duvet, stretched itself straight out, and then dropped limply back onto the bed.

Its owner’s head, her long, curly brown hair dishevelled and a bit wild, emerged next, and a very sleepy Hermione opened her eyes a crack, squinting in the late-morning light that fell across her face.

Her eyes traveled slowly around the room. Stark walls, one striking poster the notable exception just overhead. A chest of drawers, its top nearly bare; a desk, littered with papers and books and a pair of laptops. The desk chair, various articles of clothing—some of it _hers_ \-- strewn haphazardly over it. Those were definitely her knickers.

Hermione yawned, stretching luxuriantly, as her mind gradually cleared. The fabric of the duvet felt silky against her bare skin. _Everywhere_.

Sweet Circe, she’d… they’d really… Gradually she became aware of a dull ache between her legs, and then a very distinct image crystallised behind her eyes, and she found herself smiling and blushing as she remembered.

She was truly a woman now. She felt as if she’d been initiated into that final mystery, the one she’d been listening to others talk about for the past three years. Lav, both the Patil twins, Susan, Hannah… and then, in the year after the war, to others who’d stayed to take the uni prep class.

And the experience of it had been… well… quite simply, _amazing_. Somehow, she didn’t believe it had been a matter of luck either. Briefly, she wondered if he were just prodigiously gifted in the sack—or did she dare to believe it might really have been the two of them together creating those incredible sparks? It had to be, she told herself, remembering his eyes as he’d looked down at her just before… Those eyes that had turned lambent and seemed lit from within as he’d gazed at her. They had communicated a raw truth, albeit fleetingly, before clouding over with desire. But what had slipped through in that moment was unmistakable.

Had he meant to reveal himself to her quite so nakedly? She guessed not. It was startling and rather scary, now that she thought about it. And _thrilling_.

Raising herself up on one elbow, she looked down at the sleeping figure beside her. He lay sprawled on his stomach, only his tousled blond head and shoulders visible above the bedcovers. Then abruptly, he rolled onto his back, his left arm flung carelessly over his eyes to shield them from the sun that was hitting the pillows.

It was there. Faded a bit, true, but still fairly distinct and sinister-looking as it spread itself over his left forearm. Even faded, it stood out in sharp relief against the very pale, fine skin. She wondered at not having seen it before, and then reminded herself that he’d always worn jumpers and long-sleeved shirts, and the one time he’d inadvertently pushed the sleeves up, he’d tugged them back down almost immediately. Now she had a pretty good idea why.

Repulsed momentarily, now Hermione found herself perversely fascinated. She reached a gingerly fingertip out and delicately traced the outer perimeters of the Mark and then the serpent within it.

It did not burn her. The jaws of Hell did not open to swallow her. There was no clap of ominous thunder overhead. It was just a tattoo, miraculously beginning to fade now: the evil symbol of a horrific time they’d both come through, a sign that he’d been caught early and then branded-- against his will, she now knew. But its power was long gone.

Her heart constricted in her chest as she remembered what he’d said the night before about having regrets. She sensed that he’d meant it in more than just a general sense. How often, she wondered, had he only been going through merely sad and pathetic motions when he’d said something cruel and hurtful to her, years before? When had his bigoted and contemptuous behaviour stopped being an expression of his true feelings and begun merely to be a half-hearted echo of his father’s vicious sentiments, said more because he thought he should than because he truly believed any of it anymore? She thought just maybe it had been sixth year, when so often he’d seemed withdrawn, his eyes haunted and distant. The nasty words were the same, but the conviction seemed gone from them. She’d merely laughed them off, throwing his pathetic attempts to humiliate or criticise her back in his face. She hadn’t given much thought to what might truly have been behind those haunted eyes, except… except when he’d been seen weeping in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She’d wondered briefly then, but had soon forgotten it in the face of so much else that had preoccupied everyone that tumultuous year.

Merlin… he’d worked on that cabinet sixth year, let the Death Eaters into the school, been on the verge of killing Dumbledore, and now… _now_ she knew how much those acts had tortured him. He hadn’t wanted any of it. He’d been coerced, used, a pawn caught between Voldemort’s boundless cruelty and insatiable hunger for power and his own father’s overweening, toadying ambitions, and the virulently racist beliefs that had fueled both.

 _You do what everyone has always expected you to do all your life_.

And he had, hadn’t he. How awful, to feel so chained to the expectations of others—of one’s own parents, one’s _father_. To feel so ultimately powerless.

 _Until you just can’t anymore_.

Until he’d simply had to stop.

She couldn’t even begin to guess at the nightmarish images he’d had to carry with him all the time, what he’d been made to witness and participate in. Suddenly she felt her gorge rising at the very thought of Lucius Malfoy and the horrors to which he’d subjected his own child. She could happily have strangled the man. Looking down at his son, now beginning to wake, she felt her throat closing with sudden, angry tears, and she leaned down to gently smooth the hair from his eyes. She wondered if Lucius Malfoy knew his son at all, if he had the slightest idea what a truly complex and questing soul Draco was, beneath the cocky, arrogant facade.

Just then, Draco opened his eyes fully and his mouth curved into a soft, dreamy smile.

“ ’Morning,” he whispered, reaching out to stroke Hermione’s arm gently.

“Hi,” she replied softly, and immediately snuggled down next to him again, drawing his left arm back over her and idly running a finger up and down its underside, deliberately moving ever nearer to the Mark.

When he realised where her finger was heading, he tried to pull his arm away, but she wouldn’t have it. She laid her hand firmly on the Mark then, giving his arm a gentle squeeze, and looked up at him. Her eyes held his, daring him to push her away.

“Hermione…” He swallowed. “No… please…”

“It’s nothing to you now! _Nothing_ ,” she declared fiercely. “It’s got no power over you anymore. All that is _over. Finished!_ He’s gone! For good this time! Look,” she said, “I’m touching it. I’m touching _you_. It’s just skin. It’s just a bloody _picture_. It can’t hurt you anymore, not if you don’t let it!”

All this time, he’d turned his head away, staring at a fixed point in space. Now, he looked down at her, his eyes reflecting a host of emotions all warring inside him at once. He seemed frozen, powerless to move away from the moment in any direction.

Swiftly, then, Hermione brought his arm to her mouth and pressed a firm kiss to the marked skin. She hoped fervently that this would tell him more than any words could.

He stared at her, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Her mouth was still pressed against his lower arm, leaving small, tender kisses in a random pattern all over the disfigured skin. He felt a flush spread its warmth throughout his entire body, and impulsively, he reached around with his right arm to encircle her in a tight embrace, crushing her to his chest and burying his face in her fragrant hair, dropping light kisses into the curls.

“Hermione,” he murmured again and again, in wonderment. This amazing girl had just done the unthinkable, the impossible… the _incredible_. The fucking _miraculous_.

Finally, he pulled away and looked at her. She was crying now, her tears dripping onto his chest, leaving tiny rivulets in the smooth skin.

“You don’t know…” he began, and his voice trembled, and then dropped to a reverent whisper. “Thank you.” Tenderly, he kissed her forehead, her nose, her wet cheeks, her chin, finally moving to her mouth. “Thank you,” he breathed once again.

They lay there quietly, resting in each other’s arms, until finally, Draco moved his head in order to look at Hermione’s face again.

“Last night…” he began. “Last night was…”

 _Bloody amazing_.

“For me too,” she said simply and then she smiled shyly, her cheeks suddenly suffused with a sudden blush. “You were wonderful, you know. You made my first time really beautiful and special.”

Suddenly Draco’s heart felt lighter than it had in ages. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, refusing to be suppressed and he hugged her again, feeling curiously at peace. “I’m glad,” he murmured. And then something occurred to him, a sudden, worrisome intrusion. “Granger… we never… I mean, we didn’t… use any sort of protection… cast a contracep--”

“It’s all right.” Hermione’s breath tickled his neck. “I’m on the Pill.”

“What is ‘the Pill’?” he asked, confused. “Some sort of Muggle potion?”

She giggled. “I suppose, in a way,” she replied, idly exploring the fine, golden hairs surrounding his nipples. “It stops a woman becoming pregnant. I take a small tablet every day for three weeks out of each month. Works like a charm,” she added, grinning at her own pun.

Draco let out a sigh of relief. “That’s all right, then,” he said and smiled, holding her close. Then another thought struck him.

“Why? I assume you have to take it for a while before it starts really working. You couldn’t have known in advance about last night—neither of us could have done.” _Though I’ve wanted it for long enough, Merlin knows_.

Absently, Hermione stroked his right nipple, causing it to firm into a tiny pebble of flesh. He could feel himself growing hard beneath the covers.

“Well,” she answered matter-of-factly, “it’s simple. I knew I’d probably begin seeing _somebody_ at some point—at least, I hoped I would-- and I wanted to be ready. It just seemed the responsible thing to do.”

That was his Granger through and through. Trust her to be prepared. He really couldn’t imagine her being as heedless and careless as he realised he’d just been. “Well,” he chuckled, “I commend your very thorough preparation for such an eventuality.”

They lay in contented silence for another minute or two and then her hand left his chest and found its slow, meandering way beneath the covers. She paused for a moment before her fingers closed around his growing erection, and then commenced a hesitant stroke along its length, feather-light initially and then becoming more confidently firm. His breath caught in his chest.

“Oh yeah…” he murmured with a sigh. “Just like that…”

Hermione grinned, a delicious sense of power emboldening her further. She kicked away the covers altogether and slid down the bed a bit, leaning over his now-prominent erection and replacing her hand with her mouth.

She had no idea if she were doing this right; she only knew what instinct told her, as she took a fair amount of his cock into her mouth and began to suck on it, flicking her tongue lightly over the head before beginning deeper, pulling strokes. As she sucked, her hand found his balls and she fondled them tenderly as he’d taught her the night before. Suddenly, he stiffened and moaned, his hand clutching at her hair, and a jet of warm liquid spurted into her mouth, a few drops dribbling down her chin.

A moment of surprise and then she looked up, smiling gamely as she swallowed it all down, her tongue flicking out to lick the remainder from below her lip.

 _Fucking hell_.

For an innocent, the girl had talent—not to mention bloody fantastic instincts! A reward was definitely in order. Smiling wolfishly, he reached down to pull her back up alongside him on the pillows, and with a soft, throaty laugh, he proceeded to devour her.

 

*

 

Four hours later, the “scouts,” whose job was to clean the students’ rooms and leave fresh linens for them at the start of every week, had still been unable to gain entry to room 12, Staircase 5. The outer door remained closed, the implicit message clear to everyone: **Do not disturb**. Raised eyebrows and knowing grins amongst the other denizens of the third landing assured Draco’s Staircase 5 reputation for the remainder of the year. The door had been firmly shut now for seventeen hours straight. It might just be a college record.

Mark Applegate in number 11 had kindly volunteered to keep watch and note the precise time the door opened. He’d stationed himself just inside his own outer door, a book in hand and a pad and pencil on the floor beside him. Tony Spencer of number 9 had agreed to disseminate news of the final time amongst the other nine residents of the staircase, in order to determine the winner of the pool. Eric Rogerson of number 10 had offered to collect the money from everyone. The most heavily favoured odds were on the door opening at twelve hours.

At 6:00 pm, the door finally opened. It had been nineteen hours.

Peter Lawson’s bet had been a long-shot at fifteen, though everybody had scoffed at the time. But the winner had turned out to be quiet Colin Whitehead from number 7 on the second floor, whose own guess of seventeen hours had been the result of luck combined with a fertile imagination and a fair bit of fantasising and secret wishful thinking about Hermione. The winnings were quite substantial too. At £2.00 a bet, they totaled £22.00, enough to take himself and a date out for a rather decent meal.

Talking of food, there hadn’t been much in the way of actual food throughout the day; all Draco could scrounge up for the two of them had been some stale wholemeal biscuits, half a Cadbury Curly Wurly bar, and a wizened-looking apple. They’d been far too busy with other pursuits to care until now, but by close to 6:00, acute hunger had set in with a vengeance, and they had reluctantly got out of bed and dressed, splashing a bit of cold water on their faces and pulling on their jackets and woolen scarves to cross the quad for dinner.

The door opened and they stepped onto the landing. Immediately, applause erupted from all sides, the sound of it welling up all the way from the first floor. Spencer, Applegate, and Rogerson stood by their doors, clapping appreciatively, huge grins splitting their faces.

“Oi, Malfoy!” somebody hooted. “Thought you died in there!”

“Working on your _essay_ , were you, mate?”

“Bit of _hands-on_ research, Malfoy?”

A chorus of wolf whistles shrilled.

“Sod off, you wankers,” Draco snorted as he and Hermione shouldered their way past their grinning audience. “C’mon, Granger, enough of their arsing about. I’m starved!”

The cheers and applause followed them right out the door, echoing on the chill air as the door closed behind them. It was a clear, cold night, stars winking in silver strands between cottony masses of clouds, the moon gleaming in a fragile, curving arc. Once outside, they looked at each other and laughed, and he gathered her into a quick hug.

They walked briskly towards the eccentrically designed building containing the dining hall, its lights a yellow beacon in the darkness of the quad. Inside, it was bright and warm, a cheering fire burning in the large, tiled hearth. Clusters of students waited with trays in the queue and others milled about, their trays laden with steaming dishes, looking for an empty table.

The shepherd’s pie looked best tonight, and they heaped their trays with plates of the savoury casserole, bowls of fresh salad, drinks, and a sweet to finish with. Draco looked with approval at the dish of creamy chocolate mousse Hermione had chosen. He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to enjoy sweets once in a while. And Hermione positively relished them, though her slender figure put the lie to that.

They sat down finally, and for a couple of minutes, filling their empty bellies took precedence over conversation. Eventually, though, both surfaced from the ambrosial mixture of mashed potatoes, minced lamb, vegetables and gravy, and took a breath.

Draco sat back, rubbing his stomach and sighing with satisfaction. “Shit, that’s _good!_ ”

Hermione grinned. “Done already? Can I have the rest of yours?”

“Greedy! You want to watch that, Granger. You’ll get fat, you know.”

They laughed and Draco forked up another succulent mouthful. Both ate in contented silence only occasionally punctuated by conversation until finally, Hermione put down her fork and looked at Draco.

“So… Saturday’s it then, I suppose. End of term. I can’t believe it…” Her voice trailed off. Then she began again. “When are you… um… when are you going home, then?”

Draco looked up from the pear tart he had been about to dig into. His expression grew somber, his grey eyes suddenly unreadable. “Saturday afternoon. The 4:20 train to Bath. And then a taxi to Castle Combe. I can Apparate from there.” He laid his fork down and rested his chin in his palm.

“Oh…” Hermione stuck her spoon sit into the folds of chocolate mousse, where it remained, forgotten. “Yes… right. Bath…”

“What about you, then?” Draco regarded her steadily.

“My parents are driving in to collect me. They’ll be here sometime before lunch, I think. Oh, Draco--” Suddenly she took a breath, her eyes filled with excitement laced with a certain apprehension. “Can you… will you have lunch with us?”

He hadn’t expected that somehow. And yet… he wasn’t really surprised. But he had to ask. “Are you sure you want me to?”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “ _Want_ you…” she echoed, incredulous. “Of course, silly! Why ever not?”

“Well,” he replied, his voice measured. “I just thought… perhaps they wouldn’t want to meet me. If they know anything about me, I mean.”

Hermione sat back, her breath expelled in a sigh. “ _Oh._ ”

He persisted, wanting the answer to his next question and yet fearful of hearing it. “Did you tell them about… about Dumbledore? What I tried to do…?”

She couldn’t lie. “Yes,” she answered quietly, “but I also told them you didn’t go through with it. They know everything, really. I didn’t keep anything from them. They know the terrible position you were in.”

“You actually discussed me… _that_ … with your parents?” Draco was astounded.

She thought for a moment before replying. “Let me explain. I never really talked much about you—you in particular, I mean— other than the way I’d have mentioned anyone else in our year. Well, that’s not strictly true, I suppose. They did know who you were.”

“And who was I?” He asked the question lightly, but there was an undercurrent of tension in it.

She gave him a teasing smile. “Oh, you know… just that insufferably spoilt, snobbish little rich boy who was horrid to me all the time.”

His face fell. Stricken, she reached out for his hands. “I’m so sorry, Draco! I was just teasing! I didn’t really mean that!”

“Of course you did, really,” he muttered bitterly. “And you had good reason. Because that’s exactly who I was and we both know it.”

Hermione gripped his hands and looked at him fiercely. “ _Were_ , yes. Not _are_. You’re not that boy anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. I couldn’t feel the way I do about you if you were!”

She stopped short, a blush pinking her cheeks.

“And… how _do_ you feel about me… Hermione?” he asked softly, his gaze unwavering.

“Oh, this isn’t fair,” she wailed, looking away. “I can’t… I don’t…” The blush had grown alarmingly and now she felt her entire face burning. “I… _care_ , all right?” Her tone was almost defiant. And then, not quite as an after-thought, and in a voice not much more than a whisper, she added, “A lot.”

Draco smiled. Actually, if he hadn’t been sitting in hall surrounded by scores of his fellow students for whom this was an ordinary supper rather than the earthshaking, astonishing event it had suddenly become, he’d have shouted out loud. As it was, he swallowed the glee that bubbled up in his chest like newly uncorked champagne, and replied quietly, “Me too.”

Quite a lot, in fact. More than he had a right to allow himself. Certainly more than he had a right to expect in return. And yet… and yet…

He forced himself away from these euphoric thoughts and back to the subject at hand. “So… you told them about sixth year…”

“Well, yes. Of course. As much as I knew at the time, anyway. I had to, didn’t I. But once everything was over— _really_ over— I told them what Harry had seen in the Pensieve as well. So they know you were being made to do things you didn’t want to do, and that you couldn’t go through with killing Dumbledore. And that both Snape and Dumbledore were trying to protect you.” Hermione sighed deeply and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Sorry. Bit of a headache. Anyway, the gist of it is, yes, Mum and Dad do know about you.”

They knew. It was what he’d dreaded and yet it was precisely what gave him an unexpected and oddly liberating sense of relief.

“Look.” He gazed at her with sudden intensity. “I want to see you. Over the vacation, I mean. What do you think?”

Her smile was radiant. “I want to see you too! I’ve been…” _Careful, Hermione._ “Well, I mean… I’ve been thinking ( _how much I’ll miss you_ ) how strange it’ll be not to see each other ( _at **all**!_ ) considering all the time we’ve been spending together.” There was a pause whilst Hermione considered further. “How can we manage it, though?”

Draco shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know right now. But I’ll come up with something. Let’s both try to think of a way.”

Hermione nodded happily and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Right,” she agreed, “and in the meantime, _will_ you come to lunch with my parents and me on Saturday? I’ve someplace really nice in mind.”

She really seemed to want him there. And he had to admit that a part of him—a large part—wanted to be there as well. Admittedly, he was curious about her parents, wondering about the people who had produced such a clever, opinionated, bossy, beautiful and utterly captivating girl. If he were going to be honest, he knew he also wanted to be with her as much as he possibly could before boarding that train to Bath. He had very mixed feelings about returning home, now especially, and before setting foot on the train, he very much wanted to fill up every remaining moment making memories of his life _here_ and _now_ , where it was truly his own, that he could keep and replay in his head over the long vacation.

“Well,” he said slowly, teasing her, a tiny grin quirking his mouth, “I suppose I can manage to put up with you a little while longer…”

 

*

 

The time between Monday and Thursday seemed to fly. Both had other essays to finish and then turn in, in addition to their joint project for Mediaeval Lit. At 9:45 on Thursday morning, Draco stood outside Mr. Allen’s door, tapping his foot impatiently as Hermione came flying down the hallway. They had a bit of time to spare before their final tutorial, and Hermione was grateful for a chance to catch her breath.

“Sorry!” she panted, flinging a stray curl out of her eyes. “Got caught in the queue turning in my Victorian Lit essay. Oh, I am _so_ glad to be done with that one!”

Draco chuckled. He knew the feeling all too well. He’d only just finished his last essay as well, a comparative study from a cultural perspective of witch-hunts in Britain, Germany, Italy, and France in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It had been a hard slog towards the end, finishing in an all-nighter that still had him yawning. He waited whilst she dug around in her rucksack before carefully extracting their essay on “Beowulf,” for which she’d done the final proofing and printing.

“Totally clean copy. All the corrections are done and I redid the ‘works cited’ page as well. Think we’re finally really finished with it, Malfoy.” She looked up at him and smiled softly. “I’m proud of us.”

He caught her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “Me too. You did excellent work, by the way. Top notch. Not surprised, of course.”

“You’re not?” Hermione knew, of course, that he thought her intelligent. That wasn’t it. But actually hearing him articulate it did still seem bizarre at times, even now.

“Listen, Granger, I always knew you were incredibly bright. I confess, for a long time, I hated that you always seemed to best me in just about everything. Hated you for that. A girl _and_ a M-- well, you know. I finally sussed out the stupidity of _that_ attitude around fifth year. You know,” he said, “Part of me wished we could have been friends, back then. I’d have really liked to just _talk_ to you. But by then, it was too late. All I could do was watch you and listen when I could get close enough without raising suspicions. Besides, you were so involved with that group--”

“The DA,” Hermione put in.

“Yes, right. I hardly saw you except in class or at meals.”

“And you were part of Umbridge’s despicable Inquisitorial Squad.” Her voice had dropped to just above a whisper as she shuddered, remembering.

Draco took her elbow and drew her into a corner.

“ _Umbridge_ ,” he spat. “She made me _sick_.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair, but the soft, blond fringe flopped back over his eyes again and he gave up. “My father made it quite clear from the off that I wasn’t to offend her in any way. She was part of an obstructionist Ministry and that could only help the Dark Lord. You know, ‘divide and conquer,’ ” he scoffed. “So I was to be the good little pureblood and suck up to her, do whatever she wanted me to. I have to admit that at first, the power she gave us was rather fun. Everybody was afraid of us. Great for the ego. But over time, I began to see what a sick, twisted bitch she really was. One false move and it could have been me having messages cut into my skin with that fucking quill of hers.” He glanced almost furtively at Hermione, and then pushed on. “I was scared. Of her, of my father, of sodding _everything_. So I kept on with it, kept helping her. I was rather good at it too, don’t you think?” Shame coursed through him and he turned away, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.

Hermione’s heart clenched and she reached a hesitant hand out, laying it gently on his arm.

“I wish I’d known,” she whispered. “I wish… gods, Draco, we could have helped you.”

“Yeah…” He gave a small, derisive laugh. “If you lot had believed me. You wouldn’t have done. Let’s be honest.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said sadly. “Not even me. Maybe especially not me. Not then. But _oh_ …” She looked at him with huge, sorrowful eyes. “I’m so, _so_ sorry. For everything you went through. All of it.”

Without thinking, she dropped her rucksack and slid her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest and holding him tightly. Tears were threatening to fall and brusquely, she wiped them away.

Slowly, his arms encircled her and he laid his cheek against the top of her head. Her soft hair tickled him and he breathed in its fragrance, letting out a deep sigh. It felt as if another chunk of the weight pressing on his heart had been loosed and was now falling away.

Just then, the door to Allen’s quarters opened, their tutor standing there regarding them with a raised eyebrow. They broke apart with identical, sheepish grins, and filed inside.

 

*

 

1 December   
Saturday morning, 10:45 AM

 

The mobile jangled from somewhere in the depths of Hermione’s handbag, and groggily, she thrust her hand inside and groped around until she found it at last.

“Hello? Oh, _Mum_ … I’m… um…” She cleared her throat. “No, sorry, I was… um… just coming back from breakfast. You’re… okay, yes… eleven-thirty, right. See you then. Bye!”

 _Shit_.

“Wake up!” Hermione gave Draco a panicked poke in the ribs. “My parents are on their way! They’ll be here in forty-five minutes! We’ve overslept! _Malfoy!_ ” Her voice was becoming slightly shrill. “Get _up!_ ”

Without waiting for his response, she leapt out of bed, taking the quilt with her and wrapping herself in its warmth. Completely exposed and rather chilly suddenly, he sat up, a bit dazed.

“Fuck’s sake, Granger!” he muttered, reaching to grab a corner of the quilt and then dragging part of it back over himself. “No need to panic! I’m awake!”

Sitting on her bed, a small section of the quilt covering only his bits, he grinned at her rather wickedly. “What? You don’t think your parents will be happy to see me here? I assure you, I’m quite well-mannered. Parents love me.”

“I’m sure they’ll love you, just not in _my bed!_ ” Hermione groaned. She tugged at the quilt, finally snatching it off his lap completely and wrapping it back around herself. “ _Please_ , Draco, you’ve _got_ to get up now and get dressed! Oh…” She stopped and considered for a moment. “You know, maybe it would be better if you went back to your room and waited for us there. I mean, it’s enough that I’m introducing you to them—I don’t want them to have a coronary!”

He laughed as he stood up and walked over to her, opening the quilt and slipping inside it, his naked body flush against hers.

“I haven’t had my good-morning kiss yet, Granger,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck and pressing against her. Mmm… _damn_ , she felt good.

Hermione smiled despite herself. She was having similar thoughts, though the image of her parents arriving and catching them _in flagrante delicto_ had a decidedly dampening effect. “If I give you one—just _one_ , mind!—will you be good and get yourself out of here in the next ten minutes?”

Draco nodded his head dutifully and closed his eyes, a faint smile curving his lips.   
Grinning slyly, Hermione reached up and gave him a tiny peck on the tip of his nose. “Good morning!”

She made to wiggle out of his embrace but he was too quick for her. Hugging her to his chest even more tightly, he shook his head in mock consternation.

“Not so fast! Sorry, Granger, that was just pitiful. I know you can do _much_ better.” He puckered up and waited, one eye open a crack.

Well, if she must, she must. Sighing dramatically, Hermione stood on her tiptoes and brought her mouth to his. It was meant to be a quick little kiss, but no sooner did their mouths meet than he brought his hand round to the back of her head and changed the nature of the kiss entirely.

When they broke apart finally, both of them were breathing hard, their lips swollen.

“Now _that_ ,” he announced smugly, “is a _proper_ good-morning kiss. Observe and remember for future reference, Granger.”

He turned and, completely oblivious to his own nakedness, moved about the room, gathering his clothing from the various spots where pieces of it had been hastily flung the night before.

Future reference. She liked the sound of that.

 

*

 

At precisely 11:38, Hermione’s mobile trilled again. After an abbreviated conversation, she rang Draco immediately.

Five minutes later, he met her outside the entrance to Staircase 2, looking visibly nervous. She gave his hand a brief squeeze, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him quickly on the cheek.

“You’ll be fine, don’t worry. They won’t bite, I promise!” she said, trying to reassure him with her smile. “We’re going to lunch first, and then we’ll come back here and load up the car. They’re waiting in Catte Street. Come on.”

Tugging lightly on his arm, she pulled him forward and they reached the entrance to the college in a matter of minutes. Too soon, Draco thought, feeling a bit like he was facing an executioner. A pair of them, in fact.

A tastefully dressed, middle-aged couple stood just outside the Bridge of Sighs and Draco knew them as Hermione’s parents instantly. They looked to be about the same age as his own parents, somewhere in their mid-to-late forties. Richard Granger was tall and lanky with gingery hair, his hairline beginning to recede a bit. Claire Granger was Hermione all over, still svelte though slightly plumper than she must have been thirty years earlier, her shoulder-length chestnut curls lightly threaded with grey. She had Hermione’s large, soft brown eyes too, Draco noticed. Or rather, it was the other way round.

Hermione rushed up to them, throwing her arms around them both in an ecstatic hug.

“Mum, Dad!” she cried, smiling broadly. “It’s so good to see you!”

They enveloped her in their arms and the three of them stood that way for a minute or so, and then Hermione stepped back and held her hand out to Draco, who had waited self-consciously, several paces back. He smiled nervously and walked forward to take her hand.

“Dad, Mum,” she said brightly. “I would like you to meet my… my friend, Draco Malfoy.”

A shrewd glance flickered between the elder Grangers, and then Richard stepped forward, his hand out.

“Very nice meeting you, Draco,” he said, grasping Draco’s hand warmly.

Hermione’s mother was right behind him. “Hello, Draco,” she said, and her smile was Hermione’s all over again, wide and genuine. “It’s a pleasure!”

Draco’s first impulse was to stand there, speechless, like a complete ninny. Fortunately, he managed to recover his manners after only a couple of seconds, and he returned Richard’s handshake as forcefully as he could.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr. Granger and M- oh, I mean _Dr._ Granger,” he managed, and hoped the slight tremor in his voice wasn’t noticeable. “Grang- uh… _Hermione_ always speaks about you with great affection.”

 _Phew. Good. They’re still smiling_.

“Oh, Claire and Richard, please,” Hermione’s mother laughed. “We don’t stand on ceremony, do we, Richard?” She turned to her daughter then. “Well, Hermione darling, where are we having lunch, then?”

“Oh, yes!” Hermione covered her own nerves with an animated smile. “I’ve booked us into a restaurant I’ve heard is really fantastic. The best Thai food in Oxford.” She glanced at Draco and winked.

The tiny nugget of warmth that had begun deep inside with her parents’ friendly greeting was now spreading with that wink, and he could feel the tension in his muscles beginning to ease.

“Come on, we can walk. It’s not far,” Hermione told them, and they set off following her lead down Catte Street towards Radcliffe Square, taking a quick right into Brasenose Lane, a left at Turl Street and finally a right into the High Street.

“Where in Merlin’s name are we going?” Draco whispered. “I thought you were taking us to Oxford Thai!”

Hermione shook her head, smiling. “This is a surprise, even for you,” she said smugly. “One reason I wanted you to come so badly. I really wanted to share it with you.”

Not far into the High Street, she stopped them in front of a beautiful Tudor building and a small, narrow alleyway. Kemp Hall Passage, it was, and within it there was an unassuming sign: **CHIANG MAI KITCHEN** , followed by “Thai Restaurant” beneath.

 

  
Entrance to Chiang Mai Kitchen, 130A High Street, Oxford

 

Entering, they were led upstairs to a lovely room with eggshell-white walls, dark ceiling beams and a wood floor. On one side, the huge stone hearth was graced with an elaborate arrangement of dried flowers. The tables were covered in palest pink linen and there were tall, slender vases of flowers on each. Overall, the effect was one of utter simplicity and elegance designed to convey comfort and encourage relaxed dining.

 

 

  
Interior, Chiang Mai Kitchen

 

 

  
Where Hermione and Draco ate with the Grangers

 

“Oh, Hermione,” Claire breathed, sitting down at their table just in front of the hearth. “This is lovely! However did you find this place?”

Hermione grinned. “One of the girls in my staircase mentioned it. She said she always takes her parents here.”

“Good choice, Kitten,” Richard said, and opened the menu.

 _Kitten_. It fit, somehow.

“Now then,” he continued, scanning the lunch selections. “What looks good? Oh, Claire, they’ve got that soup you like, number eighteen. Draco, what do you fancy?”

Hermione cast a sidelong glance at Draco and reached for his hand under the table.

 _See?_ her wink said plainly. _I told you they’d like you._

He nodded, biting back his own relieved grin, and returned to a study of the menu.

In the end, soup and salad were dispensed with in favour of the Mieng Gai, a mildly spicy chicken dish made with ground peanuts and wrapped in spinach leaves, and Khanom Jeep, small, steamed rice pastry dumplings filled with water chestnuts, minced pork and spring onions in a soy-garlic sauce.r32;

“Does anyone have a particular preference for the main course?” Claire asked brightly. “We happen to love any sort of Pad Thai.”

Draco relaxed a bit more. At least this was something he’d had brief experience with.

“Oh yes, I like that too,” he put in.

“Well, good, we’ll have that then, and maybe something else…” Richard said, his voice trailing off as he turned back to see what special dishes were on offer. “What about the Gai Pad King? That looks very nice.”

In the end, they selected one chicken dish, one with seafood, a vegetarian Pad Thai, and stir-fried broccoli with oyster sauce.

“Richard, some wine perhaps?” Claire asked, and then glanced at Hermione and Draco, both of whom nodded. Wine sounded very good indeed, and so they ordered a carafe of the house white.

 

*

 

An hour later, their hunger sated, they sat happily relaxed over the remains of the wine.

“Hermione tells us that you’ve been working on a project together,” Richard said presently. “How did that turn out?”

Draco wondered briefly what else she might have told her parents, and then smiled pleasantly. “Very well, I think. We had our share of disagreements, though, didn’t we, Granger? I mean _Hermione_ , sorry. Old habits.” He laughed slightly.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. But you know, Draco brought a really insightful perspective to the reading of the poem. I think he understood it in a way that I didn’t at first. He helped me to feel its complexities, if that makes any sense. I’m not really expressing it very well, I’m afraid.” She smiled, shrugging apologetically.

“No, I think you are,” Claire replied. “I understand just what you mean. All good poetry needs to be _felt_ on a deeper level to be truly appreciated in the way that the poet meant it to be.”

“I agree,” Richard added. “Poetry is like music in that way, or should be at least. On a visceral level, you have to feel something that is one step beyond the words.”

It was clear to Draco, now, that Hermione had come by not only her warmth but also her great intelligence honestly and from both sides. These were people with whom he’d felt comfortable almost immediately and with whom he could really engage in genuinely interesting conversation.

Finally, delightful as it was, the meal came to an end, and it was time to get back and pack Hermione’s belongings into the boot and back seat of the car. Draco helped carry things from her room and did what he could to assist Richard in loading all of it in. Finally, everything was in, the car taking on the appearance of a stuffed sausage. Hermione held her small, potted jade plant in her hands as the four of them stood a bit awkwardly at the kerb.

“Well, sweetheart, time to go, I think,” Claire said gently. “Why don’t you just go back and have one more look round your room to make sure you haven’t left anything behind? And then you’ll need to turn in your key. Draco, you go too and help, why don’t you?” She gave Hermione a wink, took the plant from her, and got into the car.

Relieved, Hermione and Draco took off for Staircase 2 at very nearly a run. They stopped just inside the entryway and he pulled her to him fiercely.

“I miss you already,” he whispered. “I wish you weren’t leaving.”

“Me too,” she managed, her throat constricting suddenly. “I wish you were coming with me!” She rested her cheek against his chest, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh—could you come see me, maybe? I’m _sure_ it’ll be fine with my parents. They really like you, I can tell!”

“I’ll try,” he told her. “I promise. Look, I’ll write as soon as I can, yeah? We’ll sort it out somehow.”

She nodded, her eyes beginning to water with the tears she’d promised herself she wouldn’t shed.

“Baby, don’t,” Draco begged softly. “Please. It’ll be all right. Promise.”

And then they came together in a messy and desperate kiss, full of longing and regret in equal measures, and clung to each other, not wanting it to end.

When, regretfully, they separated, he took her hand for a moment.

“Look, I’ll… I’ll say goodbye here. It’ll be better that way. Tell your parents goodbye and thank them again for me, okay?” He swallowed hard, and gave her hand a squeeze.

Hermione nodded, and allowed him to smooth the tears from her cheeks. “Okay,” she said shakily. “Write to me soon. Don’t forget!”

He watched as she walked away from him, disappeared for a moment into the porters’ lodge, and then got into the car. He stayed long enough to see the car pull away from the kerb, Hermione looking back at him solemnly and waving, her face growing smaller and smaller as the car gradually disappeared from view.

How could he possibly forget? It would be the one thing that would keep him going.

It was the thought he kept with him as he took the taxi to the railway station later that afternoon and boarded the train for Bath.

 _Write to me soon. Don’t forget… don’t forget…_

It became a mantra, a hypnotic refrain, a promise he would reach for when he needed reminding that all of this was real.

As the world flashed by the train windows, he began to formulate a plan.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Only the original plot and characters are mine. I make no money from this story.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to both of my wonderful, incredibly supportive betas, kazfeist and mister_otter, for their superb help and even more, for their friendship. Hugs, Karen and Carol!
> 
> Thanks to moonjameskitten, whose very lovely banner graces the opening of each chapter and helps keep me inspired and in story mode as I write.
> 
> The title of this chapter is a lyric from an incredibly beautiful Danny Kirwan song, “Sands of Time,” off Fleetwood Mac’s Future Games album.
> 
> You can find the complete menu and wine list for Chiang Mai Kitchen here:  
> http://www.chiangmaikitchen.co.uk/


	9. Homecomings

 

1 December  
Saturday evening

 

The village of Castle Combe in Wiltshire was the prettiest village in England, it was commonly said. Strikingly picturesque, it was often thronged with tourists wanting to steep themselves in the charm and history of the mediaeval stone houses and narrow, cobbled lanes. Visitors would get off tour vans and coaches and wander along the pavements that meandered through the village, remarking on the total absence of television antennas and telephone wires on the ancient, gabled roofs. They would stop to take photos of the River Bybrook from the old Roman bridge or the town bridge and then scamper off and photograph the bridges themselves. Afterwards, they’d make plans to trek up the hill just outside the village, in order to take more photos-- this time of the stony ruins where nearly nine hundred years earlier, there had been a fortified stronghold, the “Castell of Cumbe,” belonging to the de Dunstanville family. They might stop at the local museum or the old village church, where the stone effigy of Sir Walter de Dunstanville reposed in remote majesty.

After their various exertions, many would repair to the White Hart, a lovely, 600-year-old pub housed in an even older, half-timbred house, where they’d enjoy lunch washed down with a pint of ale or some strong cider. And then they’d pile back onto the tour vans and coaches and motor off again to their next stop.

At half past six in the evening, a taxi pulled up outside the White Hart. A single passenger got out.

It was to a narrow alleyway behind the White Hart that Draco headed after paying the taxi driver. He hefted his black canvas trunk, a sort of large-ish duffel, over his shoulder and quietly disappeared into the shadowy recesses behind the old building. Anyone wandering out of the pub faintly inebriated and passing the alley at that moment in time would have sworn he’d seen a young, blond man there one second and then gone in a blink. The hapless observer would have wandered away convinced he’d been fuddled by drink and was imagining things.

He’d have been dead wrong.

 

  
Castle Combe, Wiltshire, in winter

 

  
The White Hart, Castle Combe

 

*

 

The generously proportioned front hallway at Malfoy Manor was quiet, almost preternaturally so, when Draco appeared just inside the heavy oaken door with a _pop_. It was entirely reasonable to suppose that under the richly wrought Turkey rug where he now stood, far under the foundation of the early 16th-century manor house built by Lucien-George Malfoi and home to generations of Malfoys for the last 500 years, lay the rubble and detritus of the fortified stronghold that Reginald de Dunstanville, Earl of Cornwall and bastard son of the king by his longtime mistress, had built in 1140. He was a Malfoy too, on his mother’s side; she had been Lady Sybilla Malfoi Corbet. This had been Malfoy land for close to a millennium. Its current master intended that it should remain so for at least the next several thousand years. And to that end, he made certain that the ancient Glamour magicked around the entire estate nearly 500 years earlier to prevent it being seen by prying Muggle eyes, was still in place, its power fortified from time to time. All wards were periodically checked and strengthened as well. Those coachloads of keen tourists were no threat as they wandered around the hill on which Malfoy Manor stood, invisible and intangible to all but those who were meant to see and touch. Signs and fences marking off a certain generous portion of the land as a protected archaeological site kept strangers from bumbling through the Malfoys’ home, albeit in another dimension. The very idea of that, even hypothetically, had always struck Draco as incredibly weird.

Draco dropped his trunk with a thud and was just stretching to ease the knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders when a wizened old house-elf came hurrying in from one of the front drawing rooms, the one decorated in warm, yellow hues.

“Young Master, welcome!” the little house-elf cried. “Master and Mistress is expecting you! They is waiting for you in the drawing room. Come, come!”

The little man waved his arm, beckoning enthusiastically. Draco had known Tibby all his life. Although he was primarily Lucius’ manservant, Tibby had always been fond of his master’s son, and despite the disdain and disregard Draco had been taught to show where the servants were concerned, he had always harboured a secret affection for loyal old Tibby, who’d always shown him nothing but kindness, and for Missy, who had been his first nanny and still treated him like her own child.

“Tibby!” Draco smiled and for just a moment, he relaxed, before remembering he was about to walk into the proverbial snake pit.

“Is that you, Draco darling?” a musical contralto trilled from the direction of the drawing room. A moment later, the double doors swung open and Narcissa Malfoy appeared. Impeccably coiffed and groomed and wearing a robe of rich brocade, she moved gracefully to her son’s side and opened her arms.

Dutifully, he moved into her embrace, and a moment later, willingly wrapped his arms around her, breathing in her familiar lilac fragrance. A rush of childhood memories came back to him with that flowery scent. He’d missed her without even realising just how much. For all that had increasingly stood between them over the years, there was still a powerful bond between mother and son that went far deeper than ideologies. Narcissa Malfoy’s primary allegiance had always been to her family before anything, and then to her child, when it became clear that his father’s paramount loyalties had lain elsewhere.

“I am so pleased to see you, Draco! But you did not write once in the last two months. Why?” Her tone remained measured.

“Mother, have you forgotten? I can’t keep Paladin in my room at uni. You _know_ that.” He sighed, slightly exasperated, and then glanced furtively at the drawing room, his voice dropping. “Did you not use the post box down in the village as I showed you before I left? I wrote every week. There must be a stack of letters in there by now!”

Narcissa cast her own quick look in the direction of the drawing room, before replying.

“I’m sorry, darling! I would have done, but I felt a bit…uneasy, I suppose, about entering a Muggle post office and having to deal with… them—you know, possibly having to handle their money and… well… I was afraid I’d give myself away. I ought to have been braver.”

Draco regarded her, a hint of reproach in his eyes. “I did wonder why I never got an answer to any of my letters,” he said quietly. “But I suppose I understand. It can be… daunting at first. Their world, I mean. I remember.”

He did remember. But that early fear—a feeling of being plucked out of a landscape in which everything was familiar and comfortable and thrust into one in which everything from certain terminologies to mechanisms that did the things one had been accustomed to doing with a wand or even wandless, to forms of travel to currency to— _everything_ , virtually—seemed lifetimes ago, just as it seemed like only yesterday that he’d felt it for the first time at the start of term. And so much had happened in between.

“Come, your father is waiting to see you,” Narcissa said, drawing her arm through his and gently propelling him forward. She caught his eye and shook her head slightly. “It’ll be all right.”

Lucius Malfoy stood by the tall casement windows in the drawing room, gazing out at the gardens beyond. In his hand was a small glass of amber liquid, a before-dinner aperitif, a habit he’d fallen into years before. Lucius was a man of many longstanding habits. He was also a man for whom change was difficult. Habits of a lifetime—be they the custom of a drink before dinner or the distance carefully cultivated and maintained between himself and his son—were not lightly foresworn. Even if perhaps a certain uneasy, creeping regret had begun to nudge him vaguely from time to time.

“Father.” Draco stood in the doorway.

Lucius turned in an almost balletically graceful arc to face his son.

“Draco. Welcome home.” Setting his glass down, he strode to where Draco waited, and offered his hand. Draco shook it politely.

“Sit,” Lucius said, gesturing towards one of the overstuffed sofas, and Draco dropped into it gratefully. He found suddenly that he was far more tired than he’d realised. Had it really been only—he stole a glimpse at his watch—four hours ago that he’d been with Hermione and her family, had held her in his arms, had kissed her goodbye? It didn’t seem like the same month, much less only a matter of a few hours in the same _day_. Oxford and the brown-eyed, curly-haired girl who’d come to be so central to his life were a universe away now, in another life. A life that was as remote from the one into which he’d just stepped back as chalk was from cheese.

He smiled slightly to himself as he remembered that phrase. Hermione had explained it to him one evening as they’d walked back to their quad from the library after several hours of studying. They’d been having a lively conversation about famous literary couples and the effect of love on creativity. She’d told him about French Existentialist writer Jean-Paul Sartre and his long-time lover, Simone de Beauvoir, and then the talk had moved to C.S. Lewis and his wife, poet Joy Davidman.

“Well, you know,” she said, scuffing the fallen leaves with the toes of her boots as she walked. “For starters, she was American, and a fair bit younger than he was, and a really lively, brash sort of woman, very outspoken. Absolutely the opposite of Lewis. Different as chalk and cheese. But they positively adored each other!”

Draco had been kicking small clumps of leaves up in front of him as he went and then watching them fall, savouring their sweet, rich, leaf-mould fragrance so redolent of autumn.

“Mmm, yes, and--” He turned to look at her suddenly. Her cheeks were rosy with the evening’s chill, her wild curls flying from beneath the colourful wool cap she’d pulled down over her ears. “What did you say?”

“What?” she’d asked. “Oh, that they adored--”

“No, no.” He’d shaken his head. “I meant the other thing just before that. Something about cheese.”

“Oh!” Hermione had laughed. “Yes, right! I said they were as different as chalk and cheese. It’s an expression. A strictly Muggle one, apparently, if you’ve never heard it. It means two things that are fundamentally different—opposites, even.”

“Chalk and cheese,” he’d mused. “I like that. I shall use it from now on.”

They’d continued on, the streetlamps throwing glimmering, buttery light on the pavement and casting the shrubbery and trees into deep shadows.

 

“Well, Draco.” Lucius’ voice jolted him out of his reverie. Reluctantly, he let the image of Hermione’s smiling eyes fade.

“Father?”

“I take it that you are well? We have had no word from you for two months.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and looked at Lucius. His father regarded him dispassionately-- no apparent hint of disapproval or disappointment, merely a simple statement of fact.

“We are not permitted animals in our rooms. I could not send a letter by owl. I had no means of reaching you, short of actually coming home. And—”

“You mean you _chose_ to have no means of reaching us, don’t you?” Lucius’ gaze had sharpened. “I am certain you know as well as I do that there are wizarding connections in Oxford of which you might easily have availed yourself, _if_ you had desired it. You might have contacted us in any number of ways through them. Please do not underestimate my intelligence, even if you have done so with your own. Your mother… missed you terribly. Your silence hurt her a great deal.” He turned away and carefully studied his drink.

Draco couldn’t very well tell his father that he had, indeed, devised a method of contact—with his mother, at least. That knowledge made public would only make life more difficult for Narcissa, and that he was unwilling to do. Nor was he quite ready to tell the whole truth of his intense desire to study at Oxford. The reason for that was the same as the one that stopped him contacting his parents by magical means whilst away. Magic was simply-- and quite deliberately-- not part of his life there.

“I apologise,” he said in clipped tones. “I was remiss.”

There was an uneasy silence for a couple of minutes, and then Lucius stood, moving to the windows again, his back to Draco. “And… was your term… successful, at least?”

“Yes, Father. I did quite well, thank you.” He’d been about to say, “I believe you would have been proud,” but caught himself. “I expect quite high marks, actually,” he said instead.

Lucius swirled the remaining sherry in the glass and took a small swallow. “Excellent. I expected no less.”

 _Bollocks. You hoped I’d fail miserably and come crawling back here with my tail between my legs. You didn’t believe I could succeed in their world._

 

 **One year earlier, six months after the war’s end**

 

“What in Merlin’s name do you imagine you’ll accomplish, going off to study for three years— _three years_ —in one of their institutions? What is the _point_ , Draco?”

“The _point?_ ” Draco had turned to face his father, his inhibitions nearly shredded after yet another prolonged and increasingly acrimonious discussion of the subject. “I’ll tell you— _again_. Oxford is just about the most prestigious university in England--”

“In _Muggle_ England,” Lucius interrupted.

“Yes, all right, in _Muggle_ England. Not to mention the rest of the _world_. I can study whatever I choose. The possibilities are endless. I’m discovering in the prep class that there is _so much_ knowledge beyond what we are taught here! The Ministry is encouraging this. Lots of people I know are leaving for Muggle universities next autumn. What’s _wrong_ with us learning more about their world, seeing what they might have to offer? Maybe it really will help our world to heal.”

“The Ministry!” Lucius had scoffed, his laugh derisive. “Ineffectual, pandering fools, the lot of them, easily swayed by expediencies! Don’t be naïve, Draco. These policies are just a show. They look pretty but mean _nothing_. They’re meant to appease certain factions who have a good deal of power and influence— _now_. In the end, things will once again be as they’ve always been. The Muggles have their world and we have ours. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by mixing with their society. What can they possibly offer that we don’t already have or do infinitely better? As for their so-called “knowledge” of which you speak so highly, we have never suffered for its lack, and introducing it into our world would only cause tremendous confusion and a diluting of our own power.” He looked intently at his son for a moment. “They are _not_ like us. They will never _be_ like us. You only lower yourself by mixing with them. Your place is here, in our world, with our kind. This… this idiotic venture of yours will be a complete waste of time and money.”

“Not your time, nor your money anymore,” Draco had gritted out, barely containing his anger. “Nor your _life_ , for that matter. I shall do as I please.”

Lucius had sighed and turned his face away.

“Evidently,” he remarked.

The conversation was at an end. The irony was that six months later, Lucius himself would be at the centre of a movement of formerly influential, powerful purebloods eager to demonstrate their new-found embrace of the Ministry’s policies of rapprochement between the many factions of wizarding society and establishment of initial relations with the Muggle world. It was simply the expedient thing to do, private feelings aside. Lucius Malfoy may have been many things, but he was no fool.

 

 **End flashback**

 

“Excellent. I expected no less.”

Draco looked at his father with a mixture of incredulity and scorn.

“Thank you, Father,” he replied stiffly. “I think I’d like a drink.”

 

*

 

Dinner had been a strained mixture of attempts at animated conversation from one end of the long table—his mother’s— and a taciturn avoidance of it from the other, with Draco in the middle, his stomach churning as he took small spoonfuls of soup and attempted an enthusiastic response to all of his favourite dishes being set before him, one after another. Narcissa had tried her best to make his homecoming dinner a special one, but even she could see fairly quickly that the tension would not be dispelled by the most succulent joint of roast beef.

However, Draco was doing his best to drown it in very expensive French wine. Three rather unfashionably full glasses of it had turned his mood happy and then bellicose, and now he stared silently at the dregs of crimson liquid pooled at the bottom of the glass and watched as the light from the candles set the colour aflame.

Bugger. There was not enough to _drink_. Hadn’t he just had a full glass a moment earlier?

“More wine, Tibby,” he slurred, and held his glass out. Narcissa and Lucius exchanged glances.

“Don’t you think--” she began.

“No. I _don’t_ ,” Draco answered rudely. “Not _nearly_. Tibby! I said more wine!”

Inside of twenty minutes, Draco had passed out; he’d been moved, via Mobilicorpus, up to his bedroom and deposited on the spacious, well-appointed bed. His mother decided she’d leave him to sleep it off in his clothes, merely removing his shoes and socks and woolen jumper, under which he wore a t-shirt. Then she covered him gently with a spare quilt, blew out the candle, and slipped out of the room.

When he awoke some nine hours later, his head pounding and his mouth tasting like ashes, he realised two things: one, that he really was back in his own room at Malfoy Manor, lying squarely in the middle of his luxurious bed, and two, that he had intended to write to Hermione and hadn’t, because he’d obviously passed out. Wan, milky light was filtering in through the openings in the heavy drapes and the first birdsong was piercing the early-morning quiet. He checked the bedside clock. 7.10 am.

Tottering to the en-suite, he relieved himself with a huge sigh, and then fumbled about in the mirrored cabinet for a hangover potion. There were several, in fact. He sniffed them all and gratefully grabbed the least noxious one, downing a shot of it while holding his nose and shuddering.

He would write to her now. He directed his attention to the hearth, where a warming fire erupted brightly, and then to the candles on the writing desk, which blossomed into bright points of light, illuminating the area. It felt slightly odd, doing magic again after the two-month hiatus. He’d grown used to doing without, to approaching life without magic. And yet, it was comforting. It was home. He supposed, in a sudden flash of insight, that this pull in two directions was probably very like what Hermione had experienced for the past eight years, when her life in the wizarding world had first begun.

Now he sat down at the desk to compose that letter.

“Granger,” he began, his quill making sharp scratching sounds on the parchment. _Shite, no. I can’t start it like that!_ “Dear Granger.” He rolled his eyes. _Brilliant_. “Dear Hermione.” He sighed and grinned. _Much better, you twat_. “My father’s being his usual, coldhearted bastard self and so I got drunk and I might just sick up all over myself any minute, but I wanted to say that I’ve been thinking about you. A lot. And I miss you. Do you miss me at all? If I can fix things, would you consider coming to see me here sometime? Draco.”

Rolling the parchment somewhat sloppily, he stood and discovered the room spinning in ever-widening spirals. Apparently, the potion had been bottled too long and had lost whatever curative power it once had. He clutched the edge of the desk until his vision was no longer rotating anti-clockwise and then staggered to the window. The morning air was brisk as he stuck his head out, calling softly for his owl, who flew down from the upstairs owlery and landed gracefully on the ledge.

Attaching the letter to Paladin’s leg, Draco muttered, “Hermione Granger, 16 Stratford Way, Watford,” and launched him out into the early-morning sky. Bands of mauve and peach streaked the horizon, leaching upwards into the deepening blue of the fading night. Some stars still winked high overhead, reminding him of how many could be seen from an elevated spot in the country, unspoilt by lots of artificial lights. He found himself wishing that Hermione were there to see it too.

Two hours later, he’d dozed off, his head on the desk, when there was a persistent tapping on the windowpane. It was Paladin with a return letter.

Eagerly, Draco unlatched the casement and plucked the letter from the tired owl. Absently he ruffled its feathers and fed it a couple of treats he kept in a box in the top drawer whilst untying the parchment.

“Dear Draco,” he read. “I’m so sorry your father is giving you a bad time! I hope you’re feeling much better now. The drive home yesterday was long. I kept wishing I were back in my little room in Staircase 2. I already miss Oxford. I even sort of wish we were still working on our Beowulf essay together. Because then we’d still be there, and last weekend would still be ahead of us. I think about it a lot.

“But the idea of being in your house again scares me, honestly. The memories are so bad. Hermione.”

 

Draco sat back and thought. He was fully awake now.

He was still sequestered in his room three hours later, stretched out on his bed and staring at the curtained canopy overhead, trying to work out how he could, indeed, fix things so that she _would_ come. At ten o’clock, a breakfast tray had been left by the door and he’d sat at the desk, mechanically chewing on a croissant dressed with butter and jam and sipping a cup of dark, richly aromatic coffee, lost in thought.

At half past twelve, he sat down to compose a response.

“Dear Hermione,” he wrote. “Scenario: my parents are gone for the day. I Apparate to your house and collect you. We return to my house, directly to my room. You never see any other part of the house, nor do you see my parents. And then we shag each other blind. And I get to tell you in about a hundred different ways how much I miss you. Because shit, Granger, I really, REALLY do. And it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours yet. I don’t actually get it. But I feel sort of like I’ve lost an arm or something. Write back soon. Draco.”

 

Paladin’s majestic wingspan was dazzling in the afternoon sunshine as he took off in a southeasterly direction. Draco waited impatiently for his return. He unpacked his trunk, methodically laying his clothes in the large chest of drawers and setting his books on a shelf in the bookcase where he’d have easy access to everything. His eye fell on the several copies of “Beowulf” that stood there, back to back, and for a moment, he was lost in the memories of that experience. He tried distracting himself with a novel, no longer worried about having Muggle literature in the house because it was mandated and Lucius would simply have to deal with it, only to put it down again, unable to concentrate for very long.

At 2.30, his agony was over. Paladin returned bearing another letter.

Eagerly he slipped it off the owl’s leg and broke the seal.

“Dear Draco,” it said in Hermione’s very precise, elegant hand. “I find myself sitting by the window now, waiting for your magnificent owl to arrive. What’s his name? And what sorts of treats does he like? I suspect he’s going to get to know me very well, and I’d like to have something nice to give him when he comes.

“Your scenario: well, it _could_ work, I suppose, as long as I don’t have to see your father and we go straight to your room and not anywhere else. But look, I have an idea for in the meantime. What about you coming to see me? You’d be very welcome. Oh and—I miss you too. Hermione.”

He folded the letter and held it, smiling. It was going to happen. It _would_. Now all he had to do was contrive a way of getting his parents out of the house for at least several hours one day.

Grabbing a fresh piece of parchment, he dipped his quill into the inkpot.

“Dear Hermione,” she read a couple of hours later. “His name is Paladin and he loves bits of dried meat if you don’t happen to have any rodents, worms or spiders lying about. I’m still working on a way to get my parents out of the house for an afternoon. I would love to come and see you, if you’re sure your parents won’t mind. My mother’s got me tied up in all sorts of bloody annoying social obligations for the next several days, but what are you doing on Saturday afternoon? Fancy meeting in Diagon Alley? We could go into London. Draco.”

His reply came as fast as Paladin could fly back to Wiltshire from the London suburb of Watford.

“Dear Draco, as my parents don’t have any rodents, worms or spiders to hand, I have bought Paladin some special treats from our local pet supply shop and I think he must like them very much, as he has just nearly taken my hand off in his rush to get at what I was holding! And Malfoy, I think your owl likes me. He rubbed his beak against my hand after he’d taken the treat.

You poor thing, having to put up with all those boring social functions your parents are dragging you to. Mine have planned a bit of the same for me this vacation, I’m afraid—some obligatory family visits and then dinner on Friday night at Uncle Bill and Aunt Ruth’s. They’re not really my aunt and uncle, they’re just friends of my parents and I’ve known them practically since I was born so they’re like family really. They’ve got a son, Philip, who’s our age (he and I were in nappies together!). He was spotty and dreadful the last time I saw him two years ago. I think they want to get us together. I shudder at the thought!”

Draco frowned at that last bit, but was heartened by her mention of Philip’s wretched complexion, and returned to the words that loped across the parchment in her graceful scrawl.

“This is getting to be a very long letter, isn’t it! I feel like I haven’t seen you in an age. Which brings me to your question, finally. YES! I would love to see you on Saturday! Shall we meet in front of Flourish and Blotts at one? Hermione.”

 

  
Paladin (left) and an eagle owl in flight

 

*

 

The next five days dragged. They were filled with what felt like an unending round of afternoon teas and posh dinners at a succession of pureblood bastions, the very people he’d grown up seeing his parents associate with and whose children had become his friends. Eventually the whole week became a blur for Draco. He began to feel rather like a wind-up doll, nodding and making polite conversation whilst sipping innumerable cups of tea and glasses of sherry, taking small bites of biscuits and tiny, triangular sandwiches, their crusts ever so neatly trimmed, and inwardly quailing at yet another lavish spread at yet another Belgian lace-covered dinner table.

On Thursday, as he sipped his hundredth cup of tea, wishing he could yank his heavy, confining dress robes off, he wondered what Hermione was doing at that precise moment. Whatever it was, he was certain it must be more fun and a lot more comfortable than what Narcissa was subjecting him to so relentlessly. It had also occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that his mother had had more in mind than just the fulfillment of certain seasonal social obligations. He noticed that in at least four cases, there just happened to be an unattached daughter whose purring mother had no qualms about practically pushing her into Draco’s lap.

The latest one was currently a seventh year at Hogwarts. Taller, even, than Draco, she was painfully thin, no doubt to attain her fashionable mother’s ideal of womanly perfection. She picked delicately at a watercress sandwich and blushed, tongue-tied, into her teacup.

Draco shifted in his seat impatiently. He was expected to make agreeable conversation with this spluttering beanpole. For the life of him, he couldn’t be bothered anymore. The capacity for polite chitchat had long since deserted him, and he had no interest in even trying to mask his boredom.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, smiling ingratiatingly, the edge in her voice imperceptible to everyone, Draco was sure, except for him. “I understand that Lydia has done extraordinarily well in Potions this term. That was always one of your strong suits, was it not? Perhaps you might take her for a walk in the Lady Garden. I’m sure you have a great deal in common.”

Draco had reached his saturation point at last. “Mother,” he replied, his own smile showing through gritted teeth, “it is quite cold outside. Hardly strolling weather.” He stood rather abruptly, nearly upsetting the half-full teacup he’d forgotten was balanced in his lap. “Please excuse me. I have rather a headache.”

With that, he inclined his head slightly, turned, and strode out of the blue drawing room, closing the double doors behind him and leaning back against them, sucking in a deep breath and releasing it in a long, satisfied sigh of relief.

He knew his parents would be far from pleased, but he just didn’t care anymore. Lydia Farnsworth, Angeline Parmentier, Penelope Cathcart, Elizabeth Goyle, and Portia Nott might as well have been cut from a single bolt of cloth. Not one of them had anything to say that Draco found remotely interesting. Three were passably attractive, one of them approaching a sort of affected beauty. But his response to mere surface prettiness seemed to have got short-circuited somehow. Not one of them, with their model-thin figures, absurdly high cheekbones, and pouty, glistening lips, did it for him. There was simply no real spark in any of them. Not one ounce of curiosity or genuine intellect or scrappiness. The only thing that would put a light in any of their eyes was the possibility of an assured material future. None of them would challenge him about anything, he could tell. And he’d had his fill of people fawning over him.

Lydia pursed her lips as she put her teacup down.

“Mother-r-r-r,” she whined.

“It’s all right, my pet,” Ardith Farnsworth sighed, and then looked to make sure Narcissa wasn’t in earshot before muttering, “You can do a lot better!”

She glanced around the room, her gaze falling on Theo Nott, who stood with his mother across the room.

“Ah! Come, Lydia!” she chirped brightly, taking her daughter by the elbow. The two of them flounced off, their hapless target trapped between his own mother and the buffet table.

Draco had opened the door a crack to peer back inside, and caught the tail end of this little drama. Rolling his eyes, he bit his lip to keep from laughing, made a mental note to apologise to Theo later, and disappeared upstairs to the relative sanctity of his bedroom.

That night, he climbed into his big bed with a new novel he’d bought at Blackwell’s just before coming home. It was **The Last Kingdom** by Bernard Cornwell, the story of a young Anglo-Saxon raised as a Viking, who grew up with divided loyalties as Alfred the Great came into power. The writing was crisp, vivid, and totally engaging, and sucked him very quickly into the treacherous world of 9th-century Britain. “Beowulf” had reminded him that it was a world he’d always very much enjoyed. Before long, his eyelids began to slide shut and he struggled to stay awake just for one more page. Finally, though, the battle was lost and he closed the book and blew out the candle. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, he lay back against the mound of soft pillows and gazed out the window. The drapes were partially open, and in the space between them, he could see the deep, clear night sky, a sea of black studded with stars like tiny, distant diamond chips. Snug under the warm quilt, he wondered if maybe a certain girl were looking at that same collection of constellations. Orion’s Belt glittered above the Wiltshire hills. He knew it shone above a house outside London too, and that she liked to wish on the jewels that sparkled there.

“ ‘Night, Hermione,” he thought sleepily, and then dreams overtook him.

 

*

 

'That boy is entirely too chipper this morning,' Narcissa thought, as she watched her son eagerly help himself to fried eggs, rashers, orange juice and slices of toast from the sideboard in the dining room.

Saturday morning had dawned clear and crisp, and at twenty past nine, the entire family was at the breakfast table together, something that hadn’t happened in so long that nobody could remember when the last time had been. Lucius, an early riser, was generally long finished by the time Draco came ambling in. Narcissa often made an effort to prolong that second cup of coffee so that she might have some time with her son, but usually, even she was gone by the time Draco roused himself and wandered in to eat.

“Well, darling, you seem in a good mood this morning,” Narcissa remarked conversationally.

“Mmm!” Draco smiled, a mouthful of bacon rendering his words indistinct. “I--”

“ _Manners_ ,” she reminded him, one eyebrow raised.

He gave a convulsive little gulp and grinned. “Sorry. Yes, I _am_ in rather a good mood. Plans for this afternoon.”

Lucius peered over the top of the Daily Prophet. “Really? And what might they be?”

Sudden caution dampened Draco’s high spirits just a tad. The resulting lie came very easily.

“Oh, just a friend. We’re… uh… meeting up at the Leaky Cauldron and then I suppose we’ll just… you know… hang out.”

“Which friend is this?” Lucius folded the newspaper and leaned forward slightly.

“Oh, well… that would be Theo.” It was the first name that popped into his head, probably because he’d only just seen Theo the day before and suddenly remembered Theo mentioning that he would be in Diagon Alley today. Draco gave what he hoped was a confident smile, resolving to send off that apology to Theo immediately, along with a heads-up about the ruse, just in case any questions were asked later on.

“Theo, eh? Glad you’re spending time together. Well… enjoy yourself,” Lucius said mildly, disappearing behind his newspaper once again.

That was it? No further questions? Draco frowned momentarily. This bordered on the surreal.

He finished his breakfast rather more quickly than he’d intended, anxious to get started on the day. There were things that needed doing immediately. Narcissa and Lucius continued to sip their coffee and look through the morning paper as Draco touched his napkin to his mouth, stood, and asked politely to be excused. Both nodded and barely watched as he left.

The moment he was gone, however, Narcissa’s cup came down rather emphatically on its saucer.

“ ‘Theo’ my eye! It’s a _girl_. He’s seeing somebody. I’d bet _anything_.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “ Would you now?”

Narcissa nodded energetically. “All the classic signs are there, Lucius. He’s been moody, distracted, and uncommunicative. He spends an _awful_ lot of time in his room doing Merlin only knows what.”

“I think I’ve a pretty good idea…” Lucius remarked dryly.

His wife rolled her eyes, and then her expression turned serious again. “Be _that_ as it may…he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in any of those lovely girls he’s met this week, not a one! I thought _surely_ … It was quite a bother, setting all of that up, you know!”

“No doubt you and the other ladies went to a good deal of trouble,” Lucius chuckled, easing back in his chair.

“Well, yes, we _did_ , as a matter of fact! Once I knew that nothing would ever come of our efforts with the Parkinson girl, I thought it high time we reacquaint him with the other eligible young ladies of our circle. He’s nineteen and a half now, certainly of an age to be thinking more seriously about settling down.” She sighed dramatically.

“Well, there’s little likelihood of _that_ happening so long as he’s determined to carry on with this preposterous notion of studying at that Muggle university for the next two and a half years!” Lucius scoffed.

“I know. And I suspect that may have something to do with why he reacted the way he did to all those nice girls. This past week was all for _nothing_. At best, he was bored, and at worst? He behaved quite rudely indeed to the Farnsworth girl, and was completely indifferent to the rest of them as well.”

“Ergo, he must already have a love interest?” Lucius regarded his wife’s powers of deduction with admiration, mixed with a healthy reserve of scepticism.

Narcissa, however, had no doubts at all. “Absolutely. He’ll tip his hand one of these days, you mark my words.” She paused, and a quizzical smile slowly turned up the corners of her mouth. “I wonder who it could be…?” She decided to spend some time that very morning checking the social register again.

 

*

 

One o’clock couldn’t come soon enough for Draco. He had sent Paladin off with that message to Theo, receiving a reply fairly quickly.

“Not to worry, mate. I’ve got your sorry arse covered. Who is she, anyway? Theo.”

Draco laughed and stuffed the parchment into a desk drawer. Then he took a leisurely shower, shampooing and lathering all over three times. The hot water cascading down his shoulders and back relaxed him, and he found himself drifting off into a variety of very pleasant fantasies involving him, Granger, and the biggest, softest, most decadent bed he could imagine. He shaved, making sure not to nick himself in the process, and then dressed with care, choosing a pair of comfortable, worn jeans that fit him like a second skin, a black turtleneck jumper, and his favourite black dragonhide boots.

Only half past eleven. Bloody hell, there was still nearly an hour and a half to kill. Right. He took out his book, plopped himself down in the oversized armchair by the hearth, where a warming fire was crackling thanks to the discreet efforts of the house-elf staff, and buried himself in a pitched battle between King Alfred and the Danes.

At ten minutes to one, he’d had enough. A small, persistent knot in his abdomen seemed to tighten in anticipation. Only another ten minutes. He couldn’t wait. Slipping into his warmest woollen cloak, scarf and gloves, he had a final look round his room, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and disappeared with a small _pop_.

The air crackled around him for a split second and he found himself standing in front of Flourish and Blotts, centuries-old purveyors of fine books. The sky was a leaden grey and it looked like snow was imminent. He hoped it would hold off just a few hours at least.

Anxiously, he looked around for Hermione, but she was nowhere in sight. He checked his watch. 12.59. Okay, she wasn’t late, not yet anyway. He’d been early. Two agonising minutes passed. Still no sign of her. Could something have happened? Surely she’d have sent word.

Three more minutes crawled by. By now, he was getting cold standing in one spot, and he began a little warming-up dance, hopping from one foot to the other and rubbing his gloved hands together.

Finally, at 1.05, he shut his eyes for a moment, disappointment pricking at him even as he reassured himself that she would indeed be there and not to worry.

There was a sudden scent of apricots under his nose, and then he felt two arms wrapping themselves tightly round his waist.

“You’re here!” he said stupidly, opening his eyes, and then laughed with delight and relief. “I was afraid… I mean…”

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” Hermione said into his chest, her nose buried in his woollen cloak. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I knew you’d be here. I was just…you know…getting cold, that’s all.” He held her away from him for a moment and drank the sight of her in. “Merlin, you look great!”

She laughed happily and twirled around and then hugged him again. She wore a bright red cloak and white angora gloves with a matching cloche and scarf. He had no idea how she was dressed underneath that, but he was certainly looking forward to finding out. But first, something far more important.

“Don’t move an inch,” he bent to whisper in her ear. “I need to warm up. I’m bloody freezing!” Instantly she stood very still, waiting, and he began to rub his cold nose on the warm skin of her neck, making her giggle. He followed this with a series of soft, little kisses, breathing in her lovely, natural scent that had always reminded him of almonds and honey, moving from her neck to her jaw and finally to her lips. There was a split second’s pause before their mouths finally came together, during which both were breathing shallowly in anticipation, and then they couldn’t wait another moment.

It was a kiss that had been a week in the making, seven whole days building and growing, and as he crushed his mouth to hers, they clung to each other with a sort of crazy, delighted, insatiable fervour.

At last, they broke apart, breathless and laughing.

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” she sighed, looking up at him, her eyes warm and full.

Draco’s heart sang, and as he rested his forehead against hers, his arms locked around her waist, he felt, for the first time in a week, really like himself again; there was an odd sense of completion… of coming home… that he hadn’t had until just this moment.

“Come on,” he said, clearing his throat, suddenly embarrassed by the intense emotion. “Best get going. We’ll turn into a pair of statues if we stand here another minute. Where would you like to go?

Hermione thought for a moment, and then her eyes sparkled with the excitement of a sudden idea. “I know! What about Notting Hill? It’s sort of a funky neighbourhood, very colourful, with lots of great little shops and places to eat, and every Saturday, there’s a huge antiques market that’s really a lot of fun! You can’t imagine the sorts of strange and wonderful old stuff you can find there!”

“Sounds like a plan. Let’s go.”

Taking her hand, he led the way through through the Leaky Cauldron. Just before heading out into Muggle London’s Charing Cross Road, he Transfigured both their cloaks into warm, Muggle winter jackets. And then they stepped out through the portal into the street-- and into a whole other world.

From there it was a simple matter of finding the right Underground line, and here it was Hermione, not surprisingly, who led the way to the nearby Tottenham Court Road station for the Central line to Notting Hill Gate. It was Draco’s first time taking the Tube, and he couldn’t help staring in every direction as he walked down the entrance stairs and then encountered his first escalator, which would take them far deeper into the earth, along a steep, downward slope. Muggles were continually surprising him, he’d discovered. Momentarily stunned and then fascinated, he couldn’t help thinking back to the moving staircases at Hogwarts.

The walls on either side of the escalator were plastered with framed posters advertising television programmes and new West End plays and exhibits at the British Museum, and all sorts of products that were new to Draco. His time at Oxford had been liberating and broadly educational regarding Muggle culture, but still fairly limited at this early stage regarding many things.

As the train pulled into the crescent-shaped tunnel, a tinny voice announced, “Mind the gap!” and the doors slid open. The same ominous warning was painted along the edge of the concrete platform just before it dropped off to the tracks below, and Draco was still staring at the fairly wide chasm that yawned between the platform and the train when Hermione yanked him to safety.

“Thanks!” he muttered as they sat down.

It was a comfortable ride in nicely upholstered seats, and quick too. Hermione couldn’t help smiling at the almost childlike wonder with which Draco watched people getting on and off at the various stops. All sorts of people—busy holiday shoppers, people coming into town to see a play in the West End or visit a museum—everybody resolute and focused on where they had to go, and everybody in a rush! Hermione took Draco’s elbow as they manoeuvred their way through the crowds upon leaving the train and headed up the exit stairs to the street.

A quick walk up Pembridge Road from the Tube station and they were in Notting Hill, at the famed Portobello Road. Hermione’s eyes were shining with excitement.

“Not exactly Diagon Alley, but nearly as quirky in some ways, I think!” she laughed, tugging him along.

 

  
Portobello Road

 

They entered the road at the end that was most dense with antique shops, many of them only open on Market days such as this. Draco laughed and pointed at one, with the improbable name of “Oi!” It sold jewellery, and he wanted to go and have a look, but Hermione urged him on, telling him there would be many such shops.

“Let’s just get a feel for what’s here, and then we can come back to any shop we like, yeah?” she suggested, and he agreed.

Next door to Oi!, a blue-fronted shop drew both of them to its large, plate-glass window. It was the Portobello Road Antique Gallery, and inside were all sorts of intriguing treasures: antique boxes of all sorts, clocks, chess sets (these interested Draco in particular), jewellery, animal-related antique pieces, and metalware. It was just the sort of shop that beckoned to the curious spirit, and Hermione and Draco stood with their noses pressed to the glass like little kids in front of a sweet shop.

“I know what I said before, but…” Hermione began, a sheepish grin on her face.

“Come on!” Draco laughed, and they pushed open the door and went inside.

 

*

 

“Oh! Malfoy, look at this!”

He could hear Hermione’s voice coming from somewhere in the back of the shop. He turned away from a beautiful chess set of boxwood and ebony, circa 1867, and went to find her.

She was standing surrounded by clocks of all sizes—tall case clocks, mantel clocks, wall clocks, Delft clocks, others made of rich wood, intricately carved or plain, mariners’ clocks, and musical clocks.

There was one—a French champleve clock, ornate and intricately made, meant for a mantel—that had Hermione completely stunned.

“Draco,” she breathed. “Look! It’s so…”

“Exquisite, yes,” said a voice behind them, and the smiling shop owner stepped forward. “May I help you, young lady?”

Hermione turned. “Yes, could you tell us about this beautiful clock, please?”

The owner, a Mr. Bartholomew, was short, round-faced and balding, with a slight lisp and tufts of greying hair protruding from his ears. He reminded Draco of a hobbit, and it was all he could do not to stare down at the little man’s feet.

“Ahem,” Mr. Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Well, this clock is made of very heavy bevelled glass in the bezel. Behind that, there is a quite beautiful three-and-a-half-inch brass and champleve dial. And as you can see, the back of the clock…” He beckoned them to look around at its other side. “…Has an opaque glass cover. Really an extraordinary piece.”

“How much would something like that cost?” Hermione asked quite unabashedly.

“This piece is being offered for £1,947.00.”

“Oh!” The word rushed out of her in a whoosh.

“What about this one?” Draco wanted to know, pointing at a tall case clock nearby.

“Ah, that one,” the little man said, clapping his hands together. “That’s an 18th-century Paul Price, and it’s signed. He was a very well known clockmaker from Chester, and a clock of his is very valuable indeed. That one,” he said, anticipating the next question, “is being offered for £2,588.00.”

Draco looked at Hermione and winked. “Bit pricey for us, darling, don’t you think? What with the baby coming and all.”

Hermione bit her lip, averting her eyes. “Oh, yes, that’s true. _Sweetheart_.” She followed Draco towards the front of the shop, just barely holding a giggle in check, but caught his hand suddenly, just before they reached the door.

“Malfoy, look,” she said, her voice hushed and reverent.

On a small table, on a cloth of fine lace, rested a collection of tiny crystal boxes and perfume bottles, each one unique in design. A small embossed card standing close to them revealed that they were French, about a hundred and fifty years old, and made by the famous glasshouses of Baccarat and St Louis.

Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off them. Each was exquisite in its detailing, particularly because of its small size. She put her hand out, her slender fingers extended, to touch one, but drew back.

“They’re incredible,” she whispered.

Draco looked at her carefully. He’d planned to buy her a Yule present today if he found something special and unique. He _had_ thought perhaps a piece of jewellery-- nothing big or ostentatious, nothing… well… not _that_ sort of jewellery, of course, just something pretty that really suited her. But maybe one of these small things would be an even more memorable choice. If it wasn’t too dear.

“What do you like best?” he asked casually, his expression carefully schooled into one of friendly curiosity.

Hermione glanced up at him sharply, and then relaxed when she saw his open, guileless smile. “Oh gosh, I don’t know! They’re all so beautiful! Maybe…” She hesitated, looking closely again. “Maybe this one.” She indicated one of the small boxes. “And this.” She pointed to a tiny perfume bottle with a round, ruby-coloured stopper.

Draco nodded. “Okay,” he said then, his tone suddenly brisk, “I’m ready to go. You?”

Hermione gave him one last sideways glance as she passed him on the way to the door, but his expression remained completely inscrutable beyond the bright smile he flashed her as he held the door for her.

 

  
Baccarat perfume bottles

 

  
Baccarat crystal boxes

 

  
From a Steinitz chess set, c. 1867

 

  
French champleve clock and  
18th-C. longcase clock by Paul Price of Chester

 

They continued along, stopping often to gaze at the intriguing and fanciful wares that beckoned to them from the display windows. So many captivating shop fronts caught their eyes that it was difficult to know which way to go first, and so they wandered at will. In Ledbury Road, they found themselves in front of Melt, where the delectable aroma of freshly made chocolate wafted out into the street to seduce them.

Every sort of chocolate imaginable was there, laid out in neat rows on tray after tray. The shelves of enticing sweets seemed endless, the fragrance positively intoxicating. An inveterate chocoholic, Draco was rooted to the spot, not knowing how he should indulge his passion first.

“Good afternoon!” The woman behind the counter smiled pleasantly. “May I be of any assistance?”

“Do you offer samples for tasting?” Hermione wanted to know.

“Why yes, certainly,” the sales clerk replied. “You may try anything we sell except for the pre-wrapped chocolates and of course, what is already boxed.”

What to begin with? Hermione looked at Draco, who was grinning, slightly goggle-eyed, and then smiled slyly as her gaze fell on a tray of special-edition, deluxe, dark chocolates, some of them with fillings and some plain but elegant.

“Those, please,” she said, pointing.

The sales clerk nodded and drew the tray out of the display case. Then she removed one of each type-- six bite-sized pieces-- and set them on a smaller tray.

“Now-- the proper way to enjoy fine chocolate is to inhale its bouquet and then let it melt very gradually on the tongue.” She waggled her finger at the two of them playfully. “No rushing!”

“Try one, Malfoy,” Hermione said sweetly, holding out the tray. He selected one and popped it into his mouth, and she did the same. The rich chocolate gradually liquefied in the heat of their mouths, waves of exquisite flavour rising from their palates and filling their senses.

“Mmm,” she sighed. “ _Yum_. Let’s have another.” She slanted a look at Draco. He was licking his lips euphorically. This time, she chose a square one with small ridges on top. “Open up, Malfoy.”

Dutifully, he did, and she slowly dropped the confection onto his tongue. He drew it into his mouth and closed his eyes, smiling blissfully.

“Spectacular,” he murmured. “Your turn now. Open your pretty mouth, Granger.”

He advanced on her, plucked a chocolate off the tray, and held it for a second just out of reach of her mouth, forcing her to extend her tongue in order to capture it. This she did, curling the tip of it seductively and finally being rewarded with the square of rich candy. She sucked on it slowly, relishing it, smiling and shutting her eyes appreciatively, as the luscious chocolate gradually disappeared.

“Another?” he purred, popping one into his own mouth and moving even closer to Hermione. She nodded, her eyes glued to the square of dark, rich chocolate on the tip of his tongue.

Scooping up the tray and then walking her backwards behind a display case to shield them from view, he bent his head and covered her mouth with his, his tongue finding ready entry as hers twined around it, seeking, caressing. Slyly he held back at first, playing with her, eluding her. Finally he passed the chocolate to her, and then kissed her soundly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, flushing prettily.

There was one more sample on the tray, a round one. “This one’s got a cherry inside, I bet,” she said, her voice husky. “Would you like it?”

“I think I’ve already had your cherry, Granger,” Draco said, laughing quietly.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead dropping the sweet into her own mouth. She sucked on it for a moment and then, her hand at the nape of Draco’s neck, she drew his head down to hers and shared the chocolate, the cherry and its heady liqueur, her tongue gliding over his and marking it with their various flavours.

“Delicious,” he sighed, swallowing finally. Hermione gave him one more very luxuriant kiss and then turned to walk back to the counter, ready to buy some of the chocolates they’d tried. They were shocked to discover a small army of people watching their every move from outside the window.

“You two put on quite a show, my dears,” the sales clerk remarked dryly. “If you’d care to do it again sometime, I’ll give you a very nice discount.” With a wink, she handed a paper sack to Hermione but shook her head when Hermione attempted to pay her.

“On the house, love,” she said, sighing happily, as four new customers entered the shop, the bell over the door jangling.

Crossing back into the main road, they continued north and then made a detour into tiny Elgin Crescent, stopping at Marilyn Moore’s to try on vintage clothing. They took turns playing with a slew of old hats, Hermione laughing uproariously at the sight of herself in a huge, wide-brimmed, posh hat that looked uncannily like a giant version of a lampshade in her parents’ sitting room, only with feathers. Draco affected his most debonair pose with a black fedora slouched over one eye.

“Very Cary Grant!” Hermione observed, grinning.

“Who?”

“Oh, never mind!”

 

Back in the Portobello Road, they played with an electric train set at Honeyjam Toys, Draco taking particular delight in making it stop, go, and even move backwards through tunnels with the remote control box, and remarking that such devices almost approached the handiness of a wand. A giant Lego set also occupied them for a time as they raced to see who could create the tallest, most intricate structure.

Finally wending their way back down the road, Hermione looked at her watch. “It’s gone three and I’ve just had the most marvelous idea! Are you game?” She gave him a mysterious smile.

“Think I can handle whatever you’ve got in mind, Granger,” he drawled.

“Excellent.” She tucked her arm into his and they started off.

They retraced their steps until she stopped them in front of a stone façade under the sign “The Electric Cinema.”

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please go right on to Part Two for the conclusion of this chapter!


	10. Homecomings, Part Two: The Electric Cinema

  
The Electric Cinema 

 

“It’s a real cinema, plus a restaurant. They’ve got tables right where the films are shown, so you can have a meal while you watch. It’s fantastic. I’ve been here only once, but I had a great time.” Hermione glanced hopefully at Draco. “Fancy a late lunch and a movie?”

“Excellent. Let’s do it,” he replied. The truth was, as novel an experience as this would surely be, he’d have done virtually anything to prolong their afternoon together. Lunch and a film sounded perfect. It guaranteed him at least another two or three hours with her before going home. Plus, the idea of time with Hermione in a nice, dark cinema was an added bonus. He was all for it.

Miraculously, this day’s offering turned out to be a double feature, part of a Francois Truffaut retrospective. The films were “The 400 Blows” and “Stolen Kisses,” the latter title piquing Draco’s interest. (Wryly, he deemed it rather apt in the circumstances.) For one blanket price, both films and a glass of wine could be had. Additional food and drink would be billed separately.

“Let’s see,” Hermione calculated quickly. “The first film starts at half past three. That gives us plenty of time to order our meal and find seats. And each film is close to two hours, so that means we’ll be out by…” She thought for a moment. “… by about eight. What do you think, Malfoy?”

“Eight.” Draco nodded enthusiastically. " _Excellent_. Sounds good, yeah,” he added lamely, flushing a bit at his own eagerness. “You’ll… uh… have to tell me about this director, what was his name? Trouveau?”

Hermione merely quirked a knowing smile at him and they went inside.

 

*

 

A late lunch-- one bottle of very nice Pinot Grigio, one ploughman’s lunch, and one chicken salad with walnuts and raisins on a bed of fresh greens—set out on the small tables located between each seat, they lounged comfortably in red leather armchairs complete with foot stools at the back of the auditorium, which was unusually empty this particular afternoon. As the lights dimmed, there was nobody anywhere around them, and nearly the only other people were several elderly ladies eight rows ahead of them and a few couples scattered towards the front of the screening room.

Draco stretched his legs as far as space permitted, and sipped his wine as the opening credits began to roll. “This is really nice, you know?” he whispered. “Very… civilised.”

“We Muggles _can_ be civilised on occasion,” Hermione retorted, giving him a small poke in the ribs for good measure.

“I didn’t mean it _that_ way and you know it!” he protested.

“Yeah, yeah…” she muttered. But she was smiling.

Half an hour into the film, the wine was nearly gone. Draco stretched again, and casually draped his arm around Hermione. Almost immediately, her head dropped to his shoulder and she tilted her chin up and smiled provocatively.

“This is the bit where you kiss me, I think,” she murmured.

“Oh, is it?” he answered, with straight-faced innocence. “I was really hoping to watch the film.”

Another poke in the ribs was her reply, and then, as she turned away with a theatrical huff, he swooped down and pulled her to him, catching her in a fierce kiss.

“You want to watch that violent impulse of yours, Granger. I’m getting seriously bruised,” he admonished her, and then he laughed softly, chucking her on the chin. “Silly girl. You didn’t _really_ think I’d rather watch the film, did you?”

“ ‘Course not, you great prat! You didn’t _really_ believe I was upset, did you?” Even in the dark, he could see that her eyes were dancing with laughter.

“Suppose we’re even then,” he said, and the elderly ladies turned in their seats as one, with a loud “SSSHHH!”

After that, it was very hard to keep a straight face. There was only one thing for it. He would simply have to snog her into oblivion, giving their mouths something else to do besides laugh helplessly at the three old ladies who’d been so affronted by their whispering.

And snog her he did.

Sliding down low in their seats, he angled his head and came in for a soft, provocatively light kiss for starters. She responded by sliding her fingers into his hair, and then touching her mouth to his with a series of tender kisses, each one lasting a bit longer and opening them up a little bit more.

Merlin, she got better at this every time they did it! A woman with fantastic instincts. He could definitely get used to this, he thought, as her tongue skated across his bottom lip and then ventured into his mouth. He could taste the tangy dressing from her chicken salad, mixed with the faint bouquet of the wine. It was delicious, and he pressed for more, thrusting his own tongue along hers, stroking it, drawing it back into her mouth along with his own, kissing her ever more hungrily.

“Come here,” he murmured. She smiled in the darkness, flickering images from the screen briefly lighting her face, and moved to straddle his lap, twining her arms round his neck and catching his left ear lobe lightly between her teeth.

“You feel so _good_ ,” he said softly, running his hands up and down her back, gradually moving them lower to sweep down over her hips, bum and thighs, and then up under the front of her jumper until they found her breasts. They rested lightly there, his thumbs flicking and stroking the sensitive little buds through the thin material of her bra until they were fully hard, and she sighed against his hair, rocking her hips against his pelvis.

This bra was a nuisance. It needed to be gone.

“May I?” he asked in a whisper, his fingers toying with the clasp. She nodded, and in a trice, it was unfastened. Moving it aside, he ran his hands over her bare breasts, squeezing them gently and lightly pinching her nipples, now taut and tingling. His caresses were languid, and he could hear her breaths growing more shallow and ragged with each teasing stroke.

“Hermione,” he breathed, and the sound of his voice sent a thrill of electric desire right down to her toes. She arched against him, offering herself, wanting to be touched everywhere. He happily obliged. Soon his fingers found their way to the warmth and moisture of her knickers and then this garment was moved aside as well, and he delved deep inside and then back out, fondling, stroking, his fingers slick with her arousal, until she arched and stiffened, suddenly, her mouth opening in a soundless scream of pleasure. She fell against his shoulder, breathing hard, and rested there, her breath ruffling the fine, golden hairs on the nape of his neck.

On the screen, Antoine Doinel was turning out to be a deeply troubled adolescent. His parents were having marital problems, school was a torture for him, and he felt completely alienated in his world of 1950s Paris.

Unfortunately, most of the film’s subtleties were lost on the busy young couple in the last row. The old ladies eight rows up no longer heard much of anything except for the occasional breathy sigh or tiny moan, but they did notice that the boy and girl had slid completely out of sight. How could they possibly watch the film in a horizontal position? Well, clearly, they _weren’t_. There were _places_ for that sort of thing, and a cinema wasn’t one of them!

Except—what could be more perfect than a very dark room and comfy, generous seats, nobody bothering you, and the most sweetly passionate girl Draco had ever known in his life, wanting nothing more than to please him! Such thoughts ran intermittently through his mind, when he was able to form them coherently-- that is, until Hermione, still straddling his thighs, began unzipping _his_ jeans.

She made short work of the zipper, and then delicately pulled down the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprang free, a deep rose colour and fully erect, waving cheerfully at them. Draco grinned sheepishly, and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden giggle; then, being an enterprising girl, she slid to the floor between his knees and proceeded to stop her laughter in a more productive manner.

For his part, Draco sat slouched down against the seat back, and just breathed deeply. What she was doing to him with her naively talented mouth was making him want to erupt out of the seat in an explosion of pure pleasure.

Convulsively, he grabbed the armrests and then her head, thrusting his fingers into her curls and clutching them tightly, as his balls suddenly clenched almost painfully against his body.

“ _Fucking hell_ , Granger!” he hissed, as he felt the wave building. “I’m… it’s…”

And then he did explode, straight into her waiting mouth. This second time, she’d deliberately held on, expecting to swallow it. Just as before, it tasted slightly salty, like the ocean. Not unpleasant at all. Looking up at him as he lay back against the seat, drained and limp, she smiled, wiped her mouth with careful deliberation, and then tenderly tucked his slowly deflating member back into his jeans, dropping a tiny kiss on its smooth skin as she did so.

Then she settled into her seat, chased his spunk down with the rest of her wine, and watched the remainder of the film with complete concentration, her small hand slipping comfortably into his.

 

 

 

 

  
Interiors of the Electric Cinema, Portobello Road, Notting Hill, London

 

*

 

It was ten past eight when they finally emerged from the cinema. The streets were still fairly busy with holiday shoppers on their way home now, heading-- like Draco and Hermione-- towards the Tube station. The two of them walked along slowly, people in more of a hurry moving in a stream past them on both sides. The evening was crisp and clear, and already quite a few stars were winking overhead, surrounding a silver slipper of a moon.

“When can I see you again?” Draco asked, tucking her arm in his as he peered at her in the yellow light of the streetlamps.

Hermione cocked her head to one side and raised a eyebrow, a teasing smile on her face. “Well, you know, I did invite you to my house, have you forgotten? The invitation is still open. Mum said any night this week for dinner, if you like. She’s a very good cook. She specifically said to tell you that you’d be very welcome.”

Hermione’s house for dinner. With her parents. Yes, he’d already accepted the invitation in theory, and yes, he had enjoyed her parents’ company, but this… this was different. There was something about being invited to a girl’s house to have dinner with her family that put a relationship on a whole other level. He supposed he must be there already. Truth be told, he’d been there for some indeterminate amount of time, without putting a name to it. This relationship had definitely moved from the category of best friends with (considerable) benefits to something else, though he wasn’t precisely certain when it had actually happened. He wondered if she were picking the significance of all of it apart the way he was doing. Knowing Granger, she had already done so three different ways to Sunday. He grinned wryly to himself. And despite that (or maybe, he hoped, because of it), she still wanted him to come.

And so he would go.

“What about Thursday?” Hermione was saying, as they neared the Tube station. “Seven o’clock? You can Apparate or even Floo if you want. We’re set up for it. Special permission for Muggleborns and all that.”

They began the descent down the many steps leading to the Underground platform.

“Thursday is perfect,” Draco replied, a part of him wondering what in Merlin’s name he’d just agreed to. “I’d love to come.”

The smile on Hermione’s face at that moment was worth any amount of lingering doubt that might nag at him later.

It was pure gold.

 

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks and boxes of dark chocolates from Melt to my lovely and loyal betas, kazfeist and mister_otter! They are totally there with me every step of the way.
> 
> Thanks to moonjameskitten for her beautiful and inspirational banner.
> 
> Thanks to the very nice folk at HP Britglish, as always, for their invaluable help with my innumerable and often very picky questions.
> 
> Thanks to Bernard Cornwell, for gifting the reading world with some of the very best historical novels ever, including his wonderful Uhtred series, beginning with **The Last Kingdom**. I have fudged the publication date a tiny bit, I confess, for the purposes of the story.


	11. Tell Me All The Things You Do

 

9 December  
Sunday morning, 9.00 am

 

“I’m telling you, Narcissa, it’s the truth! I saw them with my _own eyes_. They were standing there, plain as day, in front of Flourish and Blotts! If I tell you that there was not an _inch_ of space between them… well! And he looked as if he were positively _inhaling_ her!”

Elspeth Parkinson’s expression was positively gleeful in a face surrounded by green flames in the fireplace in the master bedroom of Malfoy Manor. It was still fairly early in the day, and Narcissa Malfoy was really in no mood for the sort of catty gossip Elspeth so gloried in spreading. Except, of course, that in this case, the gossip involved her son and something—or rather, some _one_ \-- she’d been wondering about increasingly for the past week.

“Did you get a good look at who it was?” Narcissa asked, intensely curious despite her annoyance at the pleasure her friend was so obviously deriving from being the bearer of such momentous information. She had just dressed and had been about to go down to breakfast when the Floo Network was activated and Elspeth’s head suddenly appeared, bursting with the news that she’d spotted Draco the afternoon before, kissing a young lady in the middle of Diagon Alley.

“No!” Elspeth wailed in frustration. “Draco’s back was to me and so he blocked her from view almost completely. All I could see of her was a bit of a red cloak and some brown hair, longish and a little curly. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, darling!”

 _No doubt_. “Hmm… well, thank you, my dear. I do appreciate knowing of this, even though you are unable to furnish me with something more… concrete.” She turned away for a moment and then back again to face her friend, whose head still floated eerily in the flames, and her tone was dry and just slightly sardonic. “Just out of curiosity, what took you so long? To tell me, I mean?”

Elspeth Parkinson had the good grace to look slightly abashed at that. “Oh, well,” she began, and Narcissa could have sworn her friend’s face had turned a deeper shade of green. “You know… I didn’t want to speak until I was certain of what I’d seen.”

 _You mean until you’d made it your business to tell everyone else we know first!_ “I am very grateful for your discretion, Elspeth,” Narcissa said evenly, her smile faintly reminiscent of a grimace.

“Anything for a friend, darling. You know that. Well, I must dash. Goodbye!” The flames surrounding Elspeth Parkinson’s head flared for an instant, and then she disappeared, and they resumed their normal colour as they licked hungrily at the large logs crackling within.

“Stupid cow,” Narcissa muttered as she left the bedroom and headed down the long, curving staircase leading too the front hallway.

Over breakfast, she wasted no time informing Lucius of this latest development. In turn, he merely let the central point of this new intelligence settle, digesting it quietly and impassively.

“Well?” Narcissa cried, exasperated. “ _Now_ do you believe me?”

“Of course I believe you, my dear,” he said, in a smooth, deadly quiet voice. “However, we have only Elspeth’s word on this and I think we may safely agree that she has something of an agenda of her own where our son is concerned.”

“Are you suggesting…?” Narcissa began, her bone-china coffee cup coming down on its saucer with a decided clink.

“That there might just be some… hard feelings, shall we say?... stemming from Draco’s refusal to show the slightest interest in Pansy? And that consequently, Elspeth might be only too eager for a way to have just a bit of her own back?”

“By spreading rumours about Draco, very likely, and dangling inconclusive bits of information in front of us.” Narcissa sighed wearily.

“I’m certain that the sight of Draco with another girl would have angered and frustrated her tremendously,” Lucius mused. “Not that I blame her for that, really. It would have been so much more… _productive_ all round if Draco and Pansy had made a successful match. But our son can be very stubborn, as you know. He made it quite clear that she was not what he desired.”

Narcissa sighed again and toyed with her spoon, stirring the lukewarm coffee and then laying the spoon down again as a certain rather heated discussion came to mind. “I remember. Only too well. And now it seems the point is more than moot.” She stood and shrugged. “Well, this afternoon will certainly be interesting, don’t you think?”

Lucius looked up from the remains of his breakfast and sudden understanding lit his eyes. “Ah, yes. Your luncheon and card game. Oh dear.”

Narcissa laughed. It was a brittle sound. “Oh, they won’t dare to say anything directly, not at first anyway. They’ll be more subtle than that. It’ll be small, sly hints before one of them simply cannot hold back one more minute.”

Lucius stood and walked around to his wife’s end of the table, slipping his arms around her from behind. “Well, just you keep your chin up, my dear. Remember who you are. Whatever those harpies have to say, it’s all innuendo at this point. Don’t forget that.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Off you go now, Cissa darling. We _shall_ get to the bottom of this, never you fear. In the meantime….”

“ _Semper fortis_ , yes, I know,” she laughed ruefully. “The Malfoy family motto. Or one of them, anyway. I’ll remember.”

 _Always strong_. Easier said than done, but she would certainly try. In any event, what choice did she have?

Just then, Draco shambled into the dining room, still in his pyjamas and a dressing gown. Lucius raised an eyebrow and sat back down. Narcissa sank back into her chair as well, and for a few moments, there was silence as Draco cheerfully helped himself to some toast and porridge. He sat down, had a sip of orange juice, scooped up a generous spoonful of porridge drizzled with butter and a bit of honey as he liked it, and then froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“What’s the matter with you?” He glanced from his mother to his father and back again. “ _Both_ of you!”

Lucius glanced briefly at his wife, hoping to pick up a signal as to how much she felt ought to be said at this point. She gave a slight shake of her head and then turned.

“Tibby! More coffee!”

The ancient house-elf appeared instantly with a steaming pot in his gnarly hands and proceeded to pour fresh cups all round.

“Be there anything more I can do for you, Mistress?” he asked, his voice quavery with age.

“No, no, that will be all for the moment, Tibby,” Narcissa said mildly, with a small wave of her hand. “Leave us now.”

Tibby bowed respectfully and vanished, leaving that same awkward silence in his wake.

Draco laid down his spoon. “All right, what did I do now?”

“Ah… nothing, darling. Did you have a nice time yesterday in Diagon Alley?”

“With Theo?” Lucius couldn’t resist adding, at which Narcissa shot him a dark look.

It was impossible to miss the little exchange of looks between the two elder Malfoys. But just what was he to make of his father’s small, verbal addendum? How, exactly, to interpret the tone of his voice? It seemed to Draco that there was just a hint of extra emphasis on “Theo,” which _could_ suggest that somehow, they knew he hadn’t spent the day and part of the evening with Theo Nott. Had he and Hermione been seen? They’d been in Diagon Alley so briefly. It was only a matter of minutes, really, from the time she’d arrived to after they’d… _Merlin’s balls_. Their _kiss_. That had to be it. Draco could have smacked himself. How could he have allowed himself to get so carried away in the moment? He’d been reckless and indiscreet and somebody must have seen the two of them and said something. Bloody. Fucking. Hell. Okay, okay. _Breathe_. Must cover this somehow.

“Oh, yeah, well, Theo couldn’t make it after all. I mean, he was there, I did see him briefly, but he had things he had to do. I just… mucked about on my own.”

“On your own,” Lucius repeated conversationally.

 _Bugger._

 _He knows. **Something** , anyway._

 _And he’s letting me hang myself, an inch at a time._

Right. Only one thing to do, then.

Stonewall.

“Yeah, exactly. On my own.” Draco gave an expansive smile to both his parents and took a large bite of toast, chewing impassively.

Narcissa and Lucius looked at each other. So this was how it was to be. Points to Draco for sheer ballsiness, Lucius thought with grudging admiration. Well, this _was_ his son, after all.

Later, after what seemed to Draco an interminable amount of time making inane chitchat with his parents as he ate, they finally left the dining room. He breathed a small sigh of relief and finished his meal in peace, his mind racing ahead all the while. They knew more than they’d let on, that much was certain. He would have to be on his guard to avoid another cock-up like the one he’d just narrowly skirted. The issue itself could still come back to bite him in the arse, and probably would do. They’d be watching him closely from here on. Next time, however, he’d be better prepared.

 

That night, 11 pm

 

“And?”

Narcissa looked up from the book she’d been reading in the comfort of their palatial bed. Lucius had just slid in beside her and now he leaned on one elbow and looked at her inquisitively.

She gave a short laugh. It had gone just as she’d anticipated. Eight ladies, all longtime friends, arrived to lunch together and play bridge, and eight ladies sat themselves down, fully intending to ferret out the truth of the delicious rumour they’d all been privy to in the past twenty-four hours. They were dying to discuss it amongst themselves first, but could only do that if the mother of the object of all the juicy innuendo were out of the room. The second she left, ostensibly in order to see to their meal, the flurry of excited questions and speculations began in earnest. Narcissa stood just outside the door to the yellow drawing room, listening. Part of her was inclined to laugh at the extreme foolishness of her friends, and the other part was quite simply indignant, not to mention chagrined, to be the subject of the current gossip.

And then she’d returned, to a suddenly very quiet room. The second wave hadn’t begun until well into lunch.

“And then,” she continued, having filled Lucius in on the preliminaries, “then as we were dining, Emmeline said something to the effect that now that Theo has grown up, there probably isn’t much she can do about his choices… romantically, she meant. To which Sylvia said that she fully intended to make sure that Gregory married within our circle if it was the last thing she did. All of them looked right at me when she said that, as if to suggest that I feel differently!” Narcissa rolled her eyes.

Lucius snorted. “And what did you say, my love?”

“Oh,” Narcissa grinned wryly, “I simply smiled as sweetly as I could manage and nodded, and said I thought that was a very wise decision.”

Lucius chuckled. “Somehow I have the feeling it did not end there.”

“It certainly did not. We ate for a while, and then, over coffee, they tried another tack. Ardith dropped a little remark about the impropriety of certain sorts of behaviour in public places. They all agreed that young people who cannot control themselves in public need to be reined in. Again, all eyes were suddenly on me.” She sighed heavily. “Lucius, you would have been proud of me. Never once did I allow their nasty, sniping little comments to shake my composure. I merely smiled again and asked if perhaps we didn’t have better, more productive things to do with our time than to dissect the behaviour of young people in the streets and then imply that their parents are to blame.”

“Brava, my dear. Excellent response! What was their reaction to that?”

Narcissa laughed. “I could see that Desdemona Parmentier had been on the verge of saying something else just then. But that shut them up completely.” Her smile faded then, and she looked at her husband gravely. “You know, I must confess… what they said has really given me pause about whom Draco is seeing. Not one of them indicated that she knew who it could be. As far as I know, Elspeth was the only one who actually saw them together. Nobody else has heard anything at all. Still—the insinuation was that it could very well be somebody totally unsuitable. I’m worried, Lucius.”

“There’s no need, Cissa. We shall have it all sorted in due time, no doubt. As you said, the boy will tip his hand sooner or later, and then we will know what we are actually dealing with. Until then, I have no intention of losing sleep over it, my sweet, and neither should you. Goodnight.”

With that, he gave her a kiss, blew out the candle, and turned over. Narcissa was left lying in the darkness, unable to sleep despite her husband’s sage advice.

 

*

 

Draco had spent that same day in blissful ignorance of his mother’s travails on his account. He’d lain on his bed, reliving his day with Hermione countless times and in vivid detail, every now and then recalling a particularly funny or endearing moment in the vintage clothing shop or the antiques gallery or as they’d walked to and from the Tube. He recalled their visit to the chocolate shop and the dark, delicious time spent in the cinema with special delight. If he closed his eyes, he could call to mind her fragrance, the very taste and feel of her, the soft moans that had thrilled him… and then there were her kisses, so inexpert and yet so alive with passion that it was impossible not to feel excited and moved.

Thursday. Four days away. It seemed forever, suddenly. He would send her a letter.

His quill scratching relentlessly on the parchment, he began.

“Dear Hermione, I’ve been thinking a lot about yesterday. Notting Hill was great. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Every part of the day was really good. I hope it was for you, too. Are we still on for dinner on Thursday? What time shall I come? And do you want me to Apparate? Or would the Floo Network be better? I mean, regarding your parents. Draco.”

For a moment, he wondered if he should have mentioned his own parents’ odd behaviour, and his belief that they had certain suspicions, and then decided not to for the moment. There would be time enough to tell her if his concern evolved into something more substantial. Right now it was all smoke and mirrors, nothing more.

He sealed the parchment scroll and opened the window, calling softly for Paladin, who swooped down in a rush of feathers, lighting on the ledge and immediately preening himself.

A moment later, after a favourite treat from Draco’s palm, he was off out the window, soon no more than a tiny speck against the mauve and peach streaks of the sunset sky. It was nearly four o’clock.

By ten that night, Draco had his reply.

“Dear Draco, I’m so glad you liked Notting Hill! I had a wonderful time too. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Of course we’re still on for Thursday! My parents are looking forward to seeing you. You can Apparate to our back garden, if you like. You know the address, of course. They’re still a bit disconcerted by it, honestly, but I actually think they’d be a bit less so if you turned up at the door like other people do instead of suddenly appearing in the sitting room fireplace. I still try to keep that sort of thing as low-key as possible, though they’ve gradually become used to quite a bit over the years. Anyway, come at seven, as I said yesterday. That’ll be perfect.” There was a small smudge right after “perfect,” as if a word had been written and then removed, followed by “Hermione.”

First thing Monday morning, he sent his response back.

“Dear Hermione, I will Apparate as you suggested. Seven sounds fine. I’ll raid my father’s wine cellar for something really good. See you then. Draco.”

 

*

 

For the next several days, Draco busied himself with the required reading that had been set for next term’s papers, and he imagined Hermione was doing much the same thing. In this way time passed in something of a blur. On Thursday afternoon at tea, Narcissa noticed that Draco seemed more than a little keyed up. Knowing better than to ask, she simply watched him closely, and noted that his ability to keep his mind on any conversation more than five minutes in length seemed to have seriously eroded.

Eventually, he put down his cup and saucer and stood.

“Sorry, Mother, will you excuse me, please?”

He seemed positively antsy by this time, and she couldn’t help herself.

“Of course, darling. Is everything all right?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

“ ‘Course, why do you ask?” He was edging towards the door now, very slowly.

“Oh, no reason, except that you seem a bit… Never mind. Look, darling, I meant to tell you-- your father and I have plans for the evening, but I shall instruct Tibby to--”

“Um… that’s not necessary, actually. I’ve got plans myself.” At Narcissa’s raised eyebrows, he rushed on. “I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it earlier. I’ve been invited to dinner at a friend’s house. Somebody from college. He… um… he lives in Hertfordshire.”

“Not somebody from our world, then, I take it.” An obvious point, but again, it slipped out before she could censor herself.

“No, Mother. He’s a Muggle.” Draco shifted impatiently from one foot to the other and glanced at his watch.

“I see,” Narcissa replied. _Translation:’He’ is a_ she, _and you’re hiding something, Draco._ “Well, all right. Will you be back tonight?”

“Expect so, but possibly not. I mean, in case I’m not, don’t be worried.” He leaned down and left a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek.

She watched him go and sat back thoughtfully, her tea cup still in her lap. So. The girl was from just outside of London then. He’d met her at Oxford. What could this mean? The pieces didn't quite fit together. She couldn't be a Muggle, else she'd never have got into Diagon Alley. That left two possibilities, and the first of those, that she was a witch from a pureblood family Narcissa had somehow overlooked, was highly unlikely. The implications of the second struck her, and suddenly she felt a sick headache coming on. The remainder of the afternoon was spent in the quiet and solitude of her darkened bedroom, a soothing compress on her forehead.

 

6:55 pm

A moment before, Draco been in the comfort and warmth of his own bedroom. Now he found himself standing next to a trellis of rose bushes, their twining branches bare of nearly everything but the thorns. In his hands were two bottles of very fine wine he’d taken from his father’s extensive collection, counting on the probability that they wouldn’t be missed. Warm yellow light poured from the windows and he could make out several figures moving in the room beyond the back door.

Suddenly his heart rate seemed to have tripled and there was what felt like a Bludger stuck in his throat. He approached the door as quietly as possible, as if to reassure himself that he could Disapparate at a moment’s notice if he should decide to back out.

Oh, grow up! a part of him chided the panicked remainder.

Right, then.

Before he could change his mind, he stuck a fist out and knocked quite forcefully.

A moment later, the door opened and there was Hermione, giving him that just-for-him, amazing smile. She looked positively radiant, in fact. And suddenly, basking in that glow, he knew that it was going to be all right. He stepped over the threshold with a relieved little grin.

Before either of them had a chance to say anything, Claire came hurrying over from behind Hermione, holding out her hand to him.

“Draco! Please come in! It’s lovely to see you again.”

Awkwardly, he made to take her hand, and then, embarrassed, thrust the two bottles at her.

“Hello, Mrs.—Claire, I mean,” he remembered. “Thank you for having me. I didn’t know what you were planning to serve, so I brought one red and one white.”

“That was so thoughtful of you. Thank you, dear. Richard, Hermione’s friend is here!” And then Claire leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Startled at such a spontaneous show of warmth to a relative stranger, he touched the spot lightly, and then let his hand drop to his side.

The kitchen was spacious and modern, with glass-fronted, honey-oak cupboards and a centre island with tall stools arranged around it for quick, casual meals. Recessed lighting in the cupboards and beneath them gave the room added warmth. Delicious smells were emanating from the huge, custom AGA cooker, on which several pots were steaming. Something quite delectable was baking in the oven as well, Draco’s nose informed him.

He found himself automatically glancing around for the house-elves and had to remind himself that of course, there were none—nor any servants at all, for that matter. He was just reflecting on that fact belatedly when Richard strode into the kitchen, his hand out in greeting.

“Well, well, Draco. I see you found us all right. Welcome to our home. Care for a drink?”

“Darling, look—Draco’s brought us some lovely wine. Two bottles, actually. Open the red, won’t you? It’ll be perfect with dinner.” Claire handed her husband one of the two bottles, a Pinot Noir, and smiled. Then she looked at Draco, an impish twinkle in her eye. “I know many people prefer white wine with fish, but I like to be more adventurous! Oh--I do hope you _like_ fish, dear. We’re having salmon.”

Hermione, standing almost protectively right next to Draco all this while, now glanced quickly at him to gauge his reaction. She relaxed visibly when he broke into a smile.

“I love salmon. I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” he answered graciously, and Hermione gave his hand a quick, grateful squeeze.

Just then Richard reappeared with the open bottle, pouring it into a decanter and setting it down on the counter. “We’ll just let that breathe a bit, I think,” he said, fetching out four graceful wineglasses from the cupboard where a collection of crystal was stored. “In the meantime, what about a bit of something else?” He poured out glasses of a nice Cabernet already open, and handed them around.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Hermione said, smiling. “Look, Mum--would you mind very much if I showed Draco around a bit before dinner?’

“Not at all,” Claire replied. “We shan’t be eating for half an hour at least. Besides, things are well in hand. Go right ahead. Oh, and if you’re feeling a bit peckish, Draco, there are canapés on the coffee table in the sitting room.”

“Great! Thanks, Mum. Come on, Malfoy!” Hermione grabbed his hand, eager to make an escape finally, and he found himself trailing along behind her into the adjoining dining room. It was a good deal smaller than his own at home—but then, what wasn’t?—and yet, it was not small by any means. In fact, now that he was really looking, he could see that Hermione’s house was quite spacious and well-appointed, the furnishings tasteful and comfortable.

They walked through the sitting room next, with its invitingly overstuffed sofas and twin armchairs and a nice fire crackling in the hearth, and then she led him up the stairs and down a hallway until they reached a door with a ceramic plaque that said, “Hermione’s Room” in bright primary colours. There was a painting of a cloud, a sun, and a rainbow, and balloons around the letters.

Hermione blushed and rolled her eyes. “Remnant of when I was five. Mum refuses to let me take it down!”

He grinned and gave her waist a pinch. “Bet you were a very cute little girl.”

“Oh, I was,” she nodded. “Everybody loved me, especially when I accidentally turned Arabella Moreton’s hair into a pile of writhing worms.”

He laughed out loud then. “Merlin’s beard! What had she done to you?”

Hermione’s face became suddenly somber. “She said I’d stolen her favourite book. I hadn’t _meant_ to keep it. I’d just wanted to look at it. When she said those terrible things, well… the worms just sort of… happened.”

There was pain in the memory, and Draco knew to leave it alone. He slid his arm around her and they just stood quietly for a minute.

“I’m sorry, Granger.” He’d never really considered what it would be like to have magic but not understand what it meant. “You must have been scared.”

She nodded. ““After that, they were scared of _me_ , all of them. That wasn’t the only time either. It was a long while before I made a real friend. Tell you later, okay?” She took a deep, settling breath, and pushed open the door to her room.

Before them was a cosy space that was very much a young girl’s private retreat. The walls were papered in a delicate, floral mini-print in ecru, peach, lilac, and rose, with hints of green. On the bed was a matching duvet, a white eyelet dust ruffle beneath, and crisp, white eyelet curtains over white-painted, louvred shutters. Beneath the large bay window, the recessed window seat had a cushion to match the wallpaper and duvet, and colourful throw pillows. He could imagine Hermione spending many happy hours there, reading or daydreaming, or maybe looking at the stars and the moon before bedtime. She’d have had lots of company too—a huge collection of dolls and plush animals ranged from one end of the window seat to the other.

She caught him looking at them and she giggled. “And they all have names too. Shall I introduce you? This is Theodora, and this one is Twink, and here’s…”

“That’s okay,” Draco chuckled. “I’ll meet them all properly later. Right now, there’s only one hello I want to say.” He threaded his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

“Hello,” she whispered, and tilted her head up to gaze at him.

“Hello,” he said softly, and caught her mouth in a sweet, lingering kiss.

When they separated, it was to rest their foreheads together with a sigh.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hermione told him happily.

“Me too,” he murmured into her hair. “Oh! I nearly forgot! I’ve brought you something too! Hang on--”

Fishing around in a pocket, he drew out a small box and handed it to her with a pleased smile.

“Go on, open it!” he urged.

Her eyes were shining as she looked up at him. She opened the lid and there, on a bed of velvet, lay a miniature yellow rose bud, not more than an inch in length. It was just at the point where the petals were beginning to unfurl.

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful! Is it… is it…”

“Real? Yes. My mother grows them,” Draco explained. “She’s got a whole bush of them in the conservatory. One end of it is sort of a greenhouse where she putters about with plants. Anyway, this rosebush has been Charmed so its flowers bloom continuously and always stay fresh and perfect, never needing light or water, even once they’re picked. And they smell wonderful! I just thought… you know… you might like to have one.”

Hermione bent her head and sniffed. A rich, heady bouquet filled her nostrils, sweeter than the rarest and most expensive perfume.

“It’s divine!” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much—I love it!” Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him tightly, and Draco knew that pinching one of Narcissa’s enchanted, miniature roses was worth whatever trouble he might find himself in later, if it were discovered. He doubted it would be. As it was, there were far too many blossoms on the bush for her to keep track of each one individually. And anyway, he was certain she wouldn’t begrudge him one in the name of romance. Well, except if she knew to whom he’d given it, of course.

They went to sit in the window seat, Hermione patting the cushion beside her. From that vantage point, Draco had a view of the entire bedroom, and now he was able to get a good look at the rest of it. Just as in her room in Staircase 2, there were framed photos—on the bookshelves, on her white-painted desk and chest of drawers, even some loose photos and ticket stubs crammed into the frame of the mirror. A dried garland of flowers with satin ribbons trailing down was hooked over the top corner of the mirror as well. Another photo—a moving one, this time, of her standing between Harry and Ron, their arms linked together and all three grinning—stood on her bedside table. It looked to have been taken years before, maybe as early as second year.

Looking at it, Draco felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret prick at him. Lost opportunities, stupid choices, pointless cruelties, wasted time. Years wasted that could have been so much more productive, more fulfilling, happier in a genuine sense. He studied the smiling faces in the picture, the three of them turning to look at each other, as secure in their friendship as if they’d been in the same family, and then the regret eroded into sudden anger that was raw, black, unreasoning. Years wasted following the wrong path and blindly accepting ideas just because they had one’s parents’ brand on them. Damn their filthy, poisonous ideas. Damn Lucius, especially, for dragging him down along with them!

“Draco? Draco, are you all right?” Hermione’s voice, hesitant and worried, seemed to be coming from very far away.

He came back to himself with a small shudder.

“What? Oh—sorry! Yes, I’m… I’m okay.”

“You were a million miles away just now! What were you thinking about?” She reached out and ran her hand gently over the back of his, closing her fingers around it. Her eyes were wide with concern. He could only imagine what he must have looked like a moment earlier.

Covering her hand with his free one, he managed a shaky smile and sighed.

“Just some old ghosts, Granger.”

Before Hermione could reply, Claire’s voice floated up the stairs, calling them down to dinner, and Draco breathed an inward sigh of relief. He had been caught by the blackness that had materialised so abruptly when he had looked at that photo. He hadn’t realised that it was so close to the surface now. It never had been before.

The dining room table was elegantly set with a peach-coloured, damask tablecloth and matching napkins, and a service of cream stoneware with the delicate look of eggshells. A bouquet of hothouse flowers graced the centre in a cut-crystal vase, and lit candles glowed in matching candlesticks on either side. The Pinot Noir Draco had brought waited in the graceful, glass decanter on the sideboard, and now Richard poured a glass for everyone and handed them round.

To…” he began, raising his glass, and everyone followed suit. “To good food and good company,” he exclaimed, “and to continued success at uni for both of you!”

“Hear, hear!” Claire enthused, and they all touched glasses. Then Claire stood.

“Hermione, dear, come help me serve. Draco, please make yourself comfortable. You and Richard can chat a bit whilst we get dinner on the table.”

The two women disappeared into the kitchen and Richard turned to Draco, leaning back in his chair. He took a sip of his wine and sighed, satisfied.

“Fine wine, absolutely excellent. Thank you for bringing it. I happen to be partial to a good, full-bodied red, and this one is superb.”

“My father has been collecting for years,” Draco replied, swirling the wine in his glass. “He’s taught me a little bit over the years, but I’m afraid I don’t have quite the interest or the passion for it that he does.”

“Ah, well, perhaps in time. You’re still very young. Ah!” Richard’s face lit up as the door to the kitchen swung open and Claire reappeared, carrying a large platter. On it was a succulent, pecan-encrusted baked salmon in a butter-brown sugar-Dijon mustard sauce. Hermione was right behind her with a plate of twice-baked jacket potatoes bubbling with garlic butter and parmesan, and a bowl of new peas. A large green salad, tossed with walnuts, almonds, tomatoes, herbed feta cheese, croutons, and sultanas, completed the meal. It was truly a feast, and Draco goggled at the sumptuousness of it, all made without the help of servants.

“Did… did you cook all this yourself?” he asked hesitantly, hoping he wouldn’t offend with a naïve or inadvertently insulting question.

Claire laughed, not in the least offended. In fact, she seemed pleased. “Why yes, Draco, I did. Or actually, that’s not strictly true. Hermione helped quite a bit.”

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised in a question, and she grinned at him sideways, her own eyes merry. “Right, Mum,” she laughed. “I did the salad. Very tricky.”

“ _And_ you made the jacket potatoes, don’t forget,” Claire reminded her. “And lovely they are, too.”

“Well, no matter who did what, this meal is magnificent!” Richard said heartily, forking up a bite of the tender fish. “Delicious!”

For a time, nobody said much of anything as forks were plied and the meal washed down with several glasses each of the wine. Eventually, conversation resumed, touching on politics, local neighbourhood gossip, news of old friends of Hermione’s who were away at university as well and newly home for the holidays, and family stories that had everybody roaring.

Coffee was served, along with what was truly the piece de resistance: a beautiful, densely rich chocolate ganache cake that made Draco’s head swim with its luscious decadence. Immediately a certain visit to a chocolate shop came to mind, and he slanted a quick look at Hermione, who smiled to herself, refusing to look him in the eye.

“You know, Hermione insisted on this cake in particular, Draco,” Claire confided. “She said you’re a serious chocolate lover.”

“ _Mum!_ ” Hermione blushed furiously. ‘You weren’t supposed to tell!”

Draco looked at her and winked. “Granger,” he chided gently, “you said your mother was a great cook, but you didn’t tell me she could bake like _this!_ It’s _amazing_. May I have another slice, please, Claire?”

The meal finished, everybody lingered over a final cup of coffee, and over Hermione’s wails of protest (“Absolutely _no_ naked-baby photos, Dad!”), Richard pulled out a family photo album, which Draco looked at eagerly. There she was, a much younger version of herself but still with that wild head of curly hair and the determined, clear-eyed look on her face. He had to grin.

One photo drew Draco’s attention back several times. In it, Hermione was perhaps four years old, and she was sitting on a small plastic chair in the back garden, a flower in her hand, the shot showing her in profile. She wore a bright yellow sundress and she was studying the flower, a pink rose, with great seriousness as if to memorise every detail. Her lids were lowered, her long lashes sweeping her cheeks, and her hair cascaded in riotous abandon over her shoulders. A light breeze must have been blowing at the time, because tendrils of hair had lifted off her shoulders and rippled just above, frozen forever in the moment. There was something inexpressibly endearing about the picture. He wished suddenly that he could have it, just slip it into his pocket. He flushed, thinking about that, and raised his eyes to see Claire looking at him, an odd smile on her face.

“Lovely, isn’t it. It’s my favourite,” she said softly. He nodded, and for just a moment, their eyes met and he saw a curious warmth in hers that was startling.

The mantel clock struck ten, and Hermione’s father stretched and stood. “Well, my dears, you will have to excuse me, I’m afraid. Early surgery tomorrow. You too, Claire,” he remonstrated. “We’d best get to the washing up.”

“I’ll help,” Hermione said immediately and before he knew it, Draco found himself carrying things to the kitchen as well. It was curiously pleasant, Draco thought, doing something that, all his life, house-elves had taken complete charge of nearly invisibly. He made several trips, carrying the cake platter and the thermal coffee pot, and coming back again to help with the dishes.

“Right, we’ll take care of the rest,” Claire told them. “You two relax.”

“Actually, I was hoping to take Hermione out for a little while, if that’s all right.” Draco looked quickly at Hermione, who smiled, and then at her parents. They nodded their assent. Shyly, he moved forward a bit.

“It’s been… wonderful,” he said. “Honestly. The nicest evening I can remember in ages. And dinner was amazing. Thank you so much for inviting me.” He held out his hand.

Richard shook it warmly, but Claire would have none of that. She gathered him in a quick hug, and then released him, still holding his hand. Her gesture was a surprise, and, as before, moved him in a way he couldn’t quite define.

“We’re delighted you could make it. We always enjoy spending time with Hermione’s friends. You’ll come again, I hope, won’t you?” Claire smiled and gave his hand a squeeze before letting it go.

Draco assured her that he would, and both Grangers bade him goodnight.

“Not too late, Hermione,” Richard reminded her as she and Draco disappeared out the back door into the garden. The door shut behind them and Richard turned to his wife, now with a dish towel over her shoulder as she began the washing up.

“Hmm…” he mused. “I don’t know, Claire… I’ve a feeling about that boy.”

“Good or bad?” she joked. “Open the dishwasher for me, love, won’t you? My hands are all soapy.”

He bent to comply and then straightened. “Oh, good. Definitely good. I think our initial instincts two weeks ago were spot on.” He absently handed her one of the large platters. “Have to keep an eye on this one, I think…”

Outside, Hermione flashed a quick glance at Draco as they buttoned up their jackets, wrapped scarves round their necks, and pulled on gloves against the cold. “Where are we going anyway?”

“Oh—well—I was thinking… that is… I hoped we could go back to my house for a bit. My parents are out tonight. We’d have the house to ourselves. Not that we would need to go anywhere but my room, of course,” he added hastily, and then pulled her to him in a quick embrace. “Will you? It’s been—I don’t know… seems like _ages._ ”

He lowered his head to her ear and nibbled on it. “Ages,” he whispered, his warm breath stirring the curling tendrils around her neck. She shivered involuntarily and nodded yes.

Only the fitful, dying light from the hearth illuminated the room as Draco and Hermione, holding hands, appeared in its centre. Its flickering orange glow threw the room into sharp relief, casting dreamlike light and deep shadows on the tall chest of drawers, the capacious desk and leather chair, and the bookshelves, with their odd marriage of Hogwarts texts, well-thumbed paperbacks, tagged books Hermione recognised as coming from the sale tables in Blackwell’s, and of course, texts he was currently reading for the new term. There was a strange sort of comfort in the sight of those shelves, so very familiar and similar to her own.

A quick bit of wandless candle magic and several candles on the desk, already burned halfway down to stubby, mushroom shapes sitting in pools of hardened wax, sprang to life, their flame points betraying the slight movement of air currents. She noticed his ink pot and quill, and thought about all the letters he’d sent lately. Here was where he’d written them all. And that, she thought, looking at the tall casement window, must have been where he’d sent Paladin off on his way to her own window, so many miles away.

Protruding into the room’s centre was a formidable and luxurious canopied bed, its silk hangings tied back with heavy, tasselled cord. His bed.

The house was silent, the door to his room closed. Nobody was at home save the staff of house-elves, and they were below stairs, far from this shadowy, quiet room.

Just to be sure, however, Draco did quick Silencing and Locking charms, and then turned to Hermione, who suddenly seemed very fragile indeed, standing in the middle of the large room, one hand on the back of the desk chair.

“Um…” she began, her voice very small. “Where’s the loo, please?”

“Oh!” Draco exhaled sharply. Suddenly, he felt unaccountably nervous, more so, even, than when he’d stood in the Grangers’ back garden debating about whether to go through with the visit or not. Having her _here_ , in his own room… knowing how badly he’d wanted this and aware of how tense she’d become despite her efforts to be brave (he could feel it in her grip as he’d held her hand), remembering what had taken place the last time she’d been under this roof, as no doubt she was doing too, at this moment…

Had it been a mistake to bring her here? Was it too soon?

There was a gentle tugging at his sleeve.

“Um… Malfoy… the loo?”

“Oh, sorry! It’s just there,” he pointed, shrugging out of his jacket and scarf. “Let me take your coat.”

She slipped hers off and handed it to him, and he tossed both over the back of the desk chair.

The door to the en-suite closed behind her and then there was silence again for a time. Draco sat down on the small sofa that faced the fireplace, and rested his chin in his palm. He watched the flames as they danced and rippled, the dry wood sending out small, crackling sparks.

 _She’s been in there for an awfully long time._

He waited another minute. He could hear the second hand of the mantel clock moving through its rounds, ticking sluggishly, relentlessly, each second seeming to drag.

 _What in the name of all the gods is she_ doing _in there?_

Finally he could stand it no longer. Springing up from the sofa, he went to the door of the en-suite.

“Granger, you okay in there?”

No answer.

He knocked then and pressed his ear to the door.

There was just the faintest sound, a cross between a sigh, a hiccough, and a sob.

“Hermione! Open the door, _please_.”

Another few agonising seconds passed, and finally he could hear the lock turning, and then the door slid open an inch. He pushed it open the rest of the way and found Hermione sitting on the toilet lid. She looked up at him, her eyes and nose red and watery, and then gazed down at her lap, folding her hands.

Gods. It _was_ too soon.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry! Please for--”

Instantly she was on her feet, her arms tightly around him, her face buried in his jumper. “Shut _up_ , Malfoy! It’s… Don’t you see? I _had_ to do this!” she cried fiercely. “This is a _good_ thing! I’m not upset with _you_ , you great plonker. I’m just…” She sighed heavily and sat back down. “Upset.”

Turning her tear-stained face to him, she gave him a wobbly smile. “You didn’t do anything to say sorry for. I wanted to come. I _needed_ to, don’t you see? If we’d never met again, never become friends, this… this _thing_ in my past would always have been there to haunt me. It would always have had power over me. I have nightmares sometimes…” She shuddered. “Your aunt… Bellatrix…”

“I know,” Draco said dully. “I was there. Remember?” A terrible wrenching twisted his gut. He knew about nightmares. And this… this was the thing for which he’d been trying to atone for the past two months, in every feeble way he could think of. But he could not take away what happened, nor could he take himself out of the memory for her. He had been there. He had seen. And worst of all, he had been powerless to stop it.

“Yes,” she said, and the word was cast out to drift, untouched. And then, “Hold me?”

Incredulous, he went to her, falling to his knees beside her and gathering her in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder and he could feel the dampness of her cheek against his neck.

“I’m sorry, Hermione… I’m sorry…” he whispered again and again into her hair.

“I know, baby… Don’t, _please_ … there was nothing you could have done…”

Hermione clung to him fiercely as slowly he stood, lifting her up, kissing her hair, her face, wherever he could reach. She wrapped her legs around his waist, still crying, and he carried her to the bed and sat down. She was now in his lap, her ankles still locked behind his back, and he rocked her like a baby, rocking himself as well.

“I _hate_ that something hurt you so badly here, in my house,” he whispered. “I hated watching what that sadistic bitch did and not being able to stop her. I _hated_ hearing you scream that way, seeing her curse you over and over. I heard your screams in my head for months afterwards. I was _glad_ Dobby dropped that chandelier. I almost hoped it would kill me and just blot everything out. I didn’t want to do it anymore.” He paused a moment, his throat closing, and swallowed hard, his fingers tangled in her soft hair. “I was glad when Weasley got you out of here.”

He could feel her warm breath against his neck as she spoke. “And now it’s over. It’s in the past. We’re okay, both of us. Right?”

He nodded, less sure than she seemed to be, but happy she’d said it nevertheless.

“Draco…?” Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper.

He pulled back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were luminous.

“Make love to me. Please.”

In that moment, his heart swelled and he was certain it would burst, full and unfettered, from his chest. Gently, he laid her down on his pillows and lowered himself to lie alongside her, his fingers smoothing strands of her hair away from her face and then tracing paths from her forehead to her chin.

He found he needed to kiss every part of her face and he began with her eyes, dropping soft kisses on each lid and then on the cheeks beneath, and then moving down slowly, his lips tenderly caressing her cheeks and jaw and chin, finally reaching her mouth.

Time might have stopped altogether, for all he knew. There was only Hermione and this moment, and her warm, soft mouth welcoming his. His lips moved over hers, exploring their taste and texture slowly, carefully, reverently, drawing them in, pressing, tasting with his tongue. He could go on kissing her forever, he thought. There was a hint of chocolate and he smiled against her mouth at the memory. _Hermione insisted on this cake in particular, Draco…_

She sighed and turned to him, pulling him closer, her hands stroking his back, his hips, his bum, and then slipping under his jumper, tugging on its hem to lift it out of her way.

“Help me,” she said, and he reached over his head and pulled the jumper off.

“Mmm, nice,” she sighed, laying her cheek against the warm, bare skin of his chest and pressing kisses there whilst lightly stroking from his collarbone to his smooth, taut abdomen. Then she sat up and raised her arms high overhead, looking rather like a little girl being undressed before her bath.

Smiling, he peeled her jumper up and over her head, tossing it aside, and then swiftly, needing to _see_ and _touch_ all of her, he unhooked her bra and drew it down. It was a matter of a moment before he’d dispensed with both her jeans and then his own.

Skin to skin, then. He had been missing this extraordinary sensation of _wholeness_ he had whenever he lay with Hermione. It had been just thirteen days since the last time, and yet it seemed so much longer.

Her breasts were fragrant and warm as he nestled happily between them, stroking their dusky peaks, lightly sucking and nipping and then soothing with tender kisses and strokes of his tongue.

Ah, gods, how had he gone this long? She was like a drug. He needed more, and so he moved down to insinuate himself between her legs. The scent of her growing arousal was strong, and he moved closer to its source. Only a thin scrap of pale, silky material separated him from what he craved. But he would not rush.

Gently, he spread her legs further apart and began a tantalisingly light stroking of her inner thighs, first one side and then the other.

Oh Merlin, that… _that_ was _wonderful_. She arched her back and strained to part her legs further, inviting him to touch her _there_. But he refrained, merely continuing that maddeningly delicious stroking, getting closer and closer until finally, _finally_ he bent to press his tongue to her damp knickers _just there_.

“Off! Take them off!” she hissed, and he laughed softly, hooking a finger in the waistband and drawing them down until they dangled at her ankles and she kicked them inelegantly away.

Draco Malfoy was by nature a very sensual person in all respects, and pleasuring a woman had always been one of life’s true delights for him. But never in his prior experience had he felt this enjoyment as keenly, nor been more richly and completely satisfied, than with Hermione. Her sensitivity and heightened responsiveness drove him to try for ever more intense gratification each time they were together. Tonight was no exception.

“Slide down a bit, love,” he murmured, “and bend your legs at the knee.”

As she did, he slipped his hands beneath her bum, raising her hips slightly, and brought his mouth down to her most private, sacred place. She could feel the currents of his breath warming her, tickling her, and the thrumming deep inside her that had already begun now intensified to a pulsing, insistent throbbing.

He placed a gentle kiss on the soft outer flesh just over the slit, and then, with his tongue, parted her like the petals of a flower and began to explore. He probed delicately, caressing, curling around the small nub of highly sensitive tissue and flicking at it lightly, dipping inside once again, spreading the cream of her arousal and then licking it clean.

The sensation of being about to incinerate from within was familiar now and yet still so new to Hermione. She clamped down on Draco with her knees, holding him to her tightly as the first wave rushed to take her over.

A chesty moan escaped her, rising to a near scream of his name, and she rode it out, his tongue still inside of her as she clenched and spasmed around him.

“Oh! Oh _gods!_ ” she cried. “ _Draco!_ ”

And finally it was over; the last shuddering burst had spent itself and now she lay utterly boneless against the satin pillows, staring up at the canopy overhead.

Draco smiled as he looked up at her, pressing a kiss on her lower abdomen, and then moved himself up to stretch out alongside her.

“Wow,” she sighed happily, twining her fingers in his. “That was great.”

“Oh?” he said, feigning insult. “Just ‘great’? Is that the best you can do? What’s happened to that OED-sized vocabulary of yours, Granger? What about “fantastic,’ ‘brilliant,’ ‘amazing’?”

“All that…” She paused and looked up at him innocently, her lips twitching. “And… really great too.”

“That’ll do, I suppose, for now…” he trailed off, his attention diverted by the sudden awareness of her hand around his cock as she continued to gaze up at him, a slight smile on her lips.

Before he knew it, she had pushed him onto his back and begun to kiss him very slowly, all the while stroking him with rhythmic precision: long, sinuous strokes combined with occasional light, glancing flicks across the weeping head. The combined assault of her tongue in his mouth and her warm fingers doing wonderful things to his penis made his head spin.

Just when he felt he really couldn’t take another minute of it, she pulled away from his mouth and then there was a sudden, wet, tickling caress to his balls, which began clenching almost instantly, so nearly there was he. One lick, two, her tongue curling wickedly around him, and then she took the length of him into her mouth as deeply as she could manage, her hand replacing her tongue on his balls.

His legs began to tremble with the intensity of his pleasure. Only a stroke or two and he knew it would be over. Reaching down, he pulled her up to his chest, sliding himself back into a semi-sitting position against the headboard, and held her tightly, one hand in buried in her hair.

“Why did you stop me?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “Was I doing it wrong?”

He sighed and smoothed a stray curl away from her face. “No, no, it was _wonderful_ … but I was too close… I didn’t want to come that way. I want…”

She smiled. “Okay.” With that, she sat up so that she was straddling him, and gave him one last, quick stroke before lifting herself and sliding slowly down on him until he was buried inside her as deeply as he could fit. She wiggled about for a moment, getting comfortable, and he moaned with the exquisite friction of that small movement.

“I find I like it this way,” she grinned. “Do you?”

He could only nod dumbly.

And then slowly, she began moving herself up and down, looking for a rhythm, her curls flying in wild disarray around her shoulders. He gripped her waist with both hands at first, drawing her down onto him deeply as he thrust his own hips up to meet hers. Then he reached for her breasts, cupping and squeezing them in turn, rolling his thumbs over her hard, little nipples until she gasped.

“ _Oh_ … don’t stop, Draco… that feels…”

“Great?” He couldn’t resist teasing.

“Okay, _incredible!_ Phenomenal! Stupendous! _Just. Don’t. Stop!”_ Her words came out in a breathy rush.

He knew she was very nearly there once again when her breathing became shallow and almost constricted, and she threw back her head. One quick tweak to her clit from him, and it was all over. With a final cry, she shattered around him, and that was all it took to send him over along with her, his own explosive climax continuing to empty his seed into her in roiling surges.

When she collapsed on top of him, both of them breathing hard, no words were said for several long minutes. Finally, Hermione raised her head and looked down at him. His eyes were still closed and in repose, his face was utterly relaxed and open. She leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose lightly.

“It was so much more than great, Malfoy,” she said softly.

His eyes opened and he looked at her for a moment, then pulled her back down to cuddle against him. Sighing contentedly, he tightened his arms around her. His muscles felt like butter, warmed and completely uncoiled. He hadn’t felt this utterly relaxed in a very long time.

“Thank you for tonight,” she continued, her cheek against his chest. “I’m so glad you brought me. For lots of reasons.” She paused, and then added, “My parents really like you, y’know.”

Draco grinned. He’d suspected as much, but it was still a relief to hear her say it. “You think?”

“Yes, silly, couldn’t you tell?” She giggled, dropping an affectionate kiss on his warm, smooth skin. “I think they might just want to adopt you!”

“I wouldn’t mind that! More of your mum’s fantastic cooking then!”

“You can have that anyway, whenever you want,” she replied, and then flushed. “I mean…”

“Whenever I want, eh? You don’t think they’d get a bit fed up, having me hanging about all the time?” He gave her a small, tickling pinch.

Hermione squirmed a bit, laughing. “Hey! Stop that! And as for your question, Dad would probably love having you around. You two could hang out together and talk rugby! Oh, I forgot—you don’t know rugby. Well, he could teach you, and you could explain about Quidditch. I’ve always been complete rubbish at it whenever I’ve tried.”

She glanced at her watch then, and regretfully sat up. “Oh, Merlin, it’s getting late! Nearly one. I suppose I ought to go. Mum and Dad don’t wait up for me, not officially, but I know they don’t sleep well until I’m home. And they’ve got early surgery hours tomorrow.” She leaned down to smooth a stray lock of pale hair from Draco’s forehead. “I wish I could stay with you.”

Draco lay back against an arm folded behind his head. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to its palm and then sighed. “I wish you could too.” _But we both know what a disaster_ that _would be_.

Not long after she’d gone, he moved himself to the centre of the bed and ran his hand over the sheet where she’d lain, tracing the indentations, feeling the slight warmth that remained. He lowered his head to the pillows and sniffed. There was the faintest scent of apricots.

He hugged the pillow to himself, his last waking thought one that would give him serious pause when he remembered it upon waking the next morning. For now, the comfort of it simply sent him to a sound, dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

The locked door and a complete absence of sound had not struck Narcissa as odd when she’d tried Draco’s doorknob ninety minutes earlier, after she and Lucius had returned home from their engagement. She’d shrugged, gone to the master bedchamber, and begun to prepare for bed. Passing his room again later, on her way to the library for some new bedtime reading, she tried his knob again, thinking to wish him goodnight. It was still locked.

It wasn’t until later still, when the room was dark and she’d turned over on her side and closed her eyes, that the thought occurred to her. Her son _never_ slept with a locked door. Ever since earliest childhood, nightmares would plague him from time to time, coupled with a fear of being trapped, and he’d always wanted the door unlocked whilst he slept.

Silently, she rose from bed and glided down the darkened hallway until she reached Draco’s door. She tried the knob. It would not turn. She put an ear to the door. Deadly quiet.

Why would the door still be steadfastly locked? Only one reason occurred to her, and it was the very one she most wanted to avoid entertaining.

 

 

TBC

 

  
The Grangers’ home in Watford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to my two trusty betas, mister_otter and kazfeist, on whom I rely for all sorts of stuff, not least of which is emotional support and gut-level feedback. Thanks and huge hugs to you both!
> 
> Thanks, of course, to moonjameskitten, for her superb banner!
> 
> Thanks to the lovely people at HP Britglish, for invaluable help with the most minute details imaginable, and to Robin J., a good friend from the UK who has detailed knowledge of Oxford as well, having been a student there, and very generously offered me some suggestions as well.
> 
>  **The OED** — **The Oxford English Dictionary**. One of its contributing editors was JRR Tolkien.
> 
> The house I chose for the Grangers actually is in Watford, Hertfordshire, outside of London.
> 
> The chapter title comes from a great song of the same name by Danny Kirwan of Fleetwood Mac, off their album _Kiln House._


	12. From the Grangers' Kitchen

**From Claire Granger’s Cookbook**

Here are the recipes Claire and Hermione used for the meal they served when Draco came to dinner. I thought it would be fun to share them!

Bon Appétit!

**Pecan-Encrusted Salmon**

  
INGREDIENTS:  
One salmon filet  
¼ cup Dijon mustard  
2 cups chopped pecans  
2 tbsp melted butter  
1 tbsp brown sugar, salt and freshly cracked pepper

SALMON PREP:

If the salmon has not been de-scaled, then de-scale the salmon. Lay the salmon out on a Sil-Pat-lined baking sheet.

  
1\. Sprinkle the sugar evenly over the salmon.

2\. Brush the Dijon mustard onto the salmon.

3\. Sprinkle salt and pepper onto the salmon

4\. In a bowl, combine the chopped pecans and butter. Stir to coat the pecans with the butter.

5\. Once the pecans are coated, sprinkle them onto the salmon and press them down firmly.

6\. Bake salmon in a 200 C-degree oven (Gas Mark 6, or 400 degrees F), for about 15 minutes or until it flakes easily with a fork.

http://kutv.com/food/local_story_353121853.html

  


  
Pecan-Encrusted Salmon

  
http://www.sweetmeles.com/images/recipes/pecan-encrusted-salmon.jpg

http://katysessions.com/images/salmonds.jpg

**Twice-Baked Potatoes**

*Note: Hermione used garlic butter rather than plain butter, and coarsely shredded parmesan cheese instead of cheddar cheese.

  
INGREDIENTS:

4 large baking potatoes  
8 rashers (slices) bacon  
8 oz. (1 cup) sour cream  
4 oz. (1/2 cup) milk  
2 oz. (4 tablespoons) butter  
1/2 teaspoon salt  
1/2 teaspoon pepper  
8 oz. (1 cup) shredded Cheddar cheese, divided  
8 green onions, sliced, divided

DIRECTIONS:

Preheat oven to 180 degrees C or Gas Mark 4 (350 degrees F).  
Bake potatoes in preheated oven for 1 hour.  
Meanwhile, place bacon in a large, deep skillet. Cook over medium high heat until evenly brown. Drain, crumble and set aside. When potatoes are done allow them to cool for 10 minutes. Slice potatoes in half lengthwise and scoop the flesh into a large bowl; save skins. To the potato flesh add sour cream, milk, butter, salt, pepper, 1/2 cup cheese and 1/2 the green onions. Mix with a hand mixer until well blended and creamy. Spoon the mixture into the potato skins. Top each with remaining cheese, green onions and bacon.  
Bake for another 15 minutes.

  
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Twice-Baked-Potatoes-2/Detail.aspx

  
Twice-Baked Potatoes

http://www.everydayeating.com/images/recipes/images/twice_baked_potatoes.jpg

http://www.appetizer.com/appetizer/images/twicebaked1.jpg

**Chocolate Ganache Cake**

from _Gourmet_ , June 2001

For a tall cake, use three 7-inch round pans. Use three 8-inch pans for a slightly lower cake. Lindt and Ghirardelli are best for this particular cake. Active time: 90 minutes; start to finish: 6 hrs.  
Servings: Makes 16 servings.

INGREDIENTS:  
 **For cake layers:**

6 oz. (3/4 cup) boiling water  
4 oz. (1/2 cup) unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch-process)  
1 teaspoon instant-espresso powder  
4 oz.(1/2) cup whole milk  
1 teaspoon vanilla  
16 oz. (2 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour  
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda  
1/4 teaspoon salt  
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened  
16 oz. (2 cups) packed dark brown sugar  
4 large eggs

  
 **For ganache filling and glaze:**  
1 pint (2 1/2 cups) double (heavy) cream  
r32;20 oz fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened)  
Finely chop the above in a food processor.

  
PREPARATION:  
 **Make cake layers:**

Preheat oven to 180 degrees C or Gas Mark 4 (350 degrees F).  
Butter 3 (7- or 8-inch, 2-inch-deep) round cake pans and line bottoms with rounds of wax or parchment paper. Butter paper and dust pans with flour, knocking out excess.

Whisk together water, cocoa, and espresso powder until smooth, then whisk in milk and vanilla.

Sift together flour, baking soda, and salt.

Beat together butter and brown sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed until fluffy, then add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour mixture and cocoa mixture in batches, beginning and ending with flour and mixing at low speed until just combined.

Divide batter among pans (about 2 1/3 cups per pan), smoothing tops. Bake in middle of oven until a tester comes out clean, 30 to 35 minutes for 7-inch pans or 20 to 25 minutes for 8-inch. Cool in pans on a rack 30 minutes, then invert onto racks, remove paper, and cool completely.

 **Make ganache while cakes bake:** Bring cream to a simmer in a 3- to 4-quart saucepan and remove from heat. Whisk in chocolate until smooth. Transfer ganache to a bowl and chill, covered, stirring occasionally, until thickened but spreadable, about 4 hours. (If ganache becomes too thick, let stand at room temperature until slightly softened.)

 **Assemble cake:** Arrange 1 layer on a cake stand or plate and spread 2/3 cup ganache evenly over it. Top with another cake layer and 2/3 cup ganache, spreading evenly, then third cake layer. (Chill ganache if necessary to keep at a spreadable consistency.) Chill cake until ganache filling is firm, about 1 hour. Keep remaining ganache at a spreadable consistency, chilling when necessary.  
Spread a thin layer of ganache over top and sides of cake to seal in crumbs, then chill 30 minutes. Spread remaining ganache evenly over top and sides of cake.  
Cook’s notes:

• Cake layers may be made 1 day ahead, cooled completely, then chilled, wrapped well in plastic wrap.  
• Ganache may be made 1 day ahead and chilled, covered. Let stand at room temperature 2 to 3 hours to soften to a spreadable consistency.  
• This cake can also be made in two 8-inch, 2-inch-deep round cake pans. Split layers horizontally, then use 1/2 cup ganache between layers.  
• Assembled cake keeps, covered and chilled, three days. Makes 16 servings.

  
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/105133

  
Chocolate Ganache Cake

  
www.breadandrosesbakery.com/ pages.php?pageid=2


	13. Ring Out, Solstice Bells!

  


 

 

  
_Now is the solstice of the year.  
Winter is the glad song that you hear.  
Seven maids move in seven time.  
Have the lads up ready in a line._

 _Ring out these bells.  
Ring out, ring solstice bells.  
Ring solstice bells._

 _Join together 'neath the mistletoe,  
by the holy oak whereon it grows.  
Seven druids dance in seven time.  
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming._

 _Ring out these bells.  
Ring out, ring solstice bells.  
Ring solstice bells._

 _Praise be to the distant sister sun,  
joyful as the silver planets run.  
Seven maids move in seven time.  
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming._

 _Ring out these bells.  
Ring out, ring solstice bells.  
Ring solstice bells.  
Ring on, ring out.  
Ring on, ring out._

 

”Ring Out Solstice Bells”  
from “Songs from the Wood”  
\--Jethro Tull

 

20 December  
Thursday

 

It had been a whole week since Hermione had been here. A somewhat harried week in which Draco had felt his mother’s, and to a lesser degree, his father’s, eyes studying him closely for any sort of a sign.

Sod it all—he had no intention of giving even an inch on this thing. Let them scrutinise him all they pleased. They could keep a running tally of each time he wiped his nose, for all he cared. There was no way he would tell them whom he was seeing. Not until _he_ was ready.

He really did have to give himself a well-deserved pat on the back.

It had begun the very morning after his evening with Hermione and her parents. He’d come down to breakfast, shuffling in at just past nine in his pyjamas and dressing gown, yawning and playfully cracking his knuckles just to annoy his mother. She was alone, sitting at one end of the long mahogany table, Lucius having left for his usual day’s activities as president and CEO of Malfoy Enterprises, half an hour before.

As Draco came in, Narcissa looked up at him and her gaze became curiously fixed, her eyes not leaving his face. Her expression, however, remained inscrutable. She seemed to be studying him for… what, exactly?

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up suddenly and he shuddered. Generally, if something were on her mind, his mother came out with it. It was much more his father’s style to keep silent and watchful, never letting on about what he was thinking, until he’d gathered enough evidence to spring a trap. He was far more gifted at being devious than his wife was, though lately it seemed she’d been holding her own rather admirably.

She watched Draco, and along with speculative curiosity, her clear blue eyes almost seemed to invite a confidence if he wanted to share one.

He didn’t.

“ ‘Morning, Mother,” he said with exaggerated cheeriness. “Sleep well?”

That question went over brilliantly. _No, I did not, you ungrateful boy_.

“Yes, darling, very well indeed. And you?” She smiled brightly at him as she spooned some bilberry jam from the small, cut-glass bowl, spreading it on her butter-drenched crumpet.

“Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” he said with a lazy grin, and he stretched luxuriantly, cat-like, before ducking his head for a first bracing gulp of tea: a good, strong cup of Earl Grey, his favourite.

Narcissa bit her tongue before the sharp-edged retort that was on its tip came tumbling out. She couldn’t afford to be making unfounded accusations based merely on a mother’s gut instinct. Instead, she had a sip of her own tea and looked brightly at her son, busy attacking an omelette with relish.

“Did you… have a pleasant evening with your… friend?”

Draco nodded, his mouth full of eggs and cheese. “Mmm.”

“And… did you get in late? Your father and I arrived home at half past eleven.”

What the bloody hell was she playing at with this question? She knew perfectly well that he’d already got home by that time. She’d tried the doorknob the first time just after that. And again at just past midnight, and a third time close to an hour later, just before Hermione had left. Merely because she couldn’t hear anything coming from inside his room didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed the knob being very quietly turned. Fortunately, Hermione had not.

“Yes, I got in very late indeed. Didn’t want to disturb you. It was…” As long as he was lying, he might as well make it a good one. “It was close to two, I reckon.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows shot up and she nearly choked on her tea.

Draco bit back a grin and turned resolutely back to his eggs and toast. That ought to end this line of questioning. Full stop.

And so it did. She knew—and he _knew_ that she knew—that he was lying through his teeth. But there was no way she could challenge him about it without revealing her larger agenda, and that she was not prepared to do, not just yet.

He’d been in his room, and she would have bet every Galleon in Gringotts that he hadn’t been alone. And there wasn’t a single thing she could do to prove it.

 

*

 

It had been a whole, _long_ week since he’d seen Hermione. Too long, Draco reckoned. He would have to rectify that situation.

He’d finished breakfast and now sat on his bed, chin in hand, an open text in front of him: Lennard’s **Poetry Handbook**. Ordinarily, it was something he enjoyed, poetry being an area of literature that he had found truly moved him, but today, it was all he could do to plod through a paragraph before he had the urge to throw down the book.

Right. It really was a simple matter of academic survival. If he didn’t contact Granger immediately and set up another date, he’d never be able to keep his mind on his reading, and then he’d start Hilary term abysmally unprepared and as a result, he’d fall behind, and then the entire term would be buggered.

So then. When and where? He thought it over as he drew some parchment out of his desk drawer and dipped the quill into the inkpot.

 

*

 

22 December  
Saturday  
Winter Solstice

 

At precisely two in the afternoon, the hearth in the storeroom at the back of The Goddess and The Green Man in Glastonbury saw some sudden activity, when first a young, blond wizard and then, ninety seconds later, a pretty, young witch materialised and stepped out from the green flames that had shot up from nothing a moment before.

“Hi,” Draco said softly, and grinned.

“Hello yourself,” Hermione smiled back.

And then, as one, they moved into a quiet embrace.

“Really missed you,” Draco whispered into her hair, not certain she’d heard or even that he’d wanted her to hear. He felt oddly vulnerable, suddenly. It was one thing to write it in a letter. It was another thing entirely to _say_ it.

Hermione, meanwhile, had laid her head on his shoulder, her eyes peacefully closed. Now, reluctantly, she stepped back.

“Well, I suppose we should get going. We didn’t come to Glastonbury to spend the afternoon in a storeroom, did we?” She gave a light, little laugh.

“Suppose not,” he agreed. “Right, then, come on.” Taking her hand, he led her out into the main area of the shop.

Almost immediately, both of them were drawn to particular aisles.

“Look,” he said over his shoulder, as she hung back to look at a book that had caught her eye. “I need about ten or fifteen minutes here. I see something I might like to get for my mother.”

“Okay.” She nodded absently, and promptly lost herself in the book she’d already begun reading.

Shortly after that, they stepped out into the pale sunshine and began walking along the High Street. Less than two hours of daylight remained on this shortest day of the year. It was the Winter Solstice—Yule, Midwinter, Alban Arthuan, Mabon. A variety of ancient names for it called upon a number of inter-connecting traditions and observances. But all of them would welcome this turning of the Wheel of the Year, and celebrate the rebirth and gradual strengthening of the sun in this time of his growth and ascendancy. It was the time of Bel and Bran, Oak and Holly Kings, lords of Light and Dark, and their ages-old struggle, when the Holly King gave way and the Oak King ruled his half of the year in increasing strength. In six months’ time, the Summer Solstice would see the struggle played out once again, but with the opposite result.

There was a celebratory spirit in the air as they made their way along the main shopping street in town. Sprigs of mistletoe and holly and evergreen boughs adorned many doorways and graced shop windows, as people reminded themselves that the green of the earth merely slept now and would return as the sun grew in strength and warmed the soil, the smallest particles of living matter striving to reawaken and grow once again. Lit candles brightened many a window.

Glastonbury was a very old market town that had a dual identity and a very cleverly camouflaged one at that. By nature, it was at once the repository of a potent admixture of history, myth, fantasy, and religious associations, and as a result of all that, a huge tourist magnet. Another natural by-product of its origins—real, fantastical, and everything in between—was the very large tribe of New Age devotees drawn to the area. However, within this group was another, far older one, so well hidden as to be virtually undetectable: the region’s very ancient wizarding community had insinuated itself so successfully into the larger populace that they had all but vanished from public view. From the outside, the casual visitor couldn’t distinguish between the serious practitioners with real magic and the ones who only deluded themselves into believing they had it or wished they did. Outsiders lumped everyone together in a cheerful heap labelled “New Age,” and thus, the wizarding community had been able to live peacefully and flourish, undetected, for many years.

The town was alive with shops offering everything from a wide range of supplies for practicing witches and wizards to books on mythology, shamanism, standing stones, and other ancient mysteries of all sorts, aromatherapy products, body piercings and tattoos, crystals, Green Man plaques, candles, jewellery and swords, just to name but a few.

Strolling along the High Street was an eye-opening experience. Unlike Diagon Alley, itself one of the most blatantly quirky of magical places but hidden from Muggle eyes, Glastonbury was unabashed about its nature. Every shop front seemed to be attempting to outdo the next, to catch the eye in a proud embrace of alternative lifestyles and spiritualities and a quite open acceptance of all the most ancient of Mysteries and Magicks.

“Merlin, look over there!” he whispered, starting to point. Hermione pushed his hand down and held it.

“Not polite!” she giggled. “Where?”

“Over there,” he repeated. “That bookshop across the road. See that man, the one with the red beard? I know him! I’m certain of it! He’s a stockholder in my father’s company. I saw him at a party at the house once. Look, that woman he’s talking to… she _can’t_ be magical, I don’t think!”

Hermione tried to look discreetly, glancing quickly and then averting her eyes. “No, she’s a Muggle, you’re right.” And then she looked again and her jaw dropped. “Hang on a minute, Malfoy—I think they might actually be _married!_ ”

It was very likely true. The couple had moved closer together and kissed quickly, flashes of wedding rings evident on both their hands as they embraced, and then disappeared inside the shop.

“Unless he’s just bonking her on the side,” Draco mused. “Even so. The way everyone mixes here… well, I’m just…”

“Gobsmacked?” Hermione laughed, and then dropped her voice. “Me too, a bit. It’s certainly different to what we’re used to, isn’t it! I mean, if they _are_ married, they must still be discreet about the fact that he’s a wizard and all. They would have to be. I don’t suppose that any of the wizards and witches here go round advertising that fact. Still, I know what you mean. It’s… rather nice, really, in a way—don’t you think?”

She slanted a look up at him and smiled. Draco shook his head with a grin, still somewhat nonplussed, and took her hand, and they set off once again.

Where to stop first? The possibilities were all tantalising. Hermione dragged Draco into Star Child Gifts so that she could sample some of the aromatherapy products they had on offer.

“Mmm,” she grinned, pulling the stopper from a small bottle of pale amber-coloured oil and sniffing delicately. “Vanilla. Lovely!” She thrust the vial under Draco’s nose. “Like it? Should I buy some, do you think?”

Visions of warmed, fragrant, flavoured oil being smoothed over bare skin filled his head suddenly, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Tell you what, Granger. Let me buy it _for_ you. A present.”

“I think it might be more of a present for _you!_ ” she chuckled, handing the bottle to him.

“Too right!” he muttered, taking out his credit card. “Anything else you fancy? Solstice gift. My treat.”

Twenty minutes later, they walked out with an array of scented and flavoured oils, a bottle of cocoanut body lotion, some bubble bath made with pear extract, Hermione’s favourite apricot-essence shampoo, and a couple of bars of organic soap, one in honey and almond and the other in lavender and rosemary.

“Happy Yule,” Draco said, satisfied. _I shall just have to sample a bit of that later._

“Thank you,” Hermione sighed, squeezing his hand and reaching up to give him a quick kiss. “I love this sort of stuff!”

Wandering off into St Johns Square, they discovered Profound Piercing. Hermione looked mischievously at Draco.

“I’ve always wanted to get my belly button pierced, you know,” she said. “What do you think?”

“Hmm.” Draco considered it for a moment. “Might like that, actually. Me, I mean. On you.” He looked at her. “You serious, then?”

“Well… sort of,” she admitted, and looked at him sharply. “ _Should_ I, do you suppose?”

He laughed and took her arm. “Yeah, why not? Go for it!” He lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “It’ll be dead sexy!”

Before long, they were done. It hadn’t been bad at all. Draco had been fascinated by the process and had watched avidly, whilst Hermione had screwed her eyes shut and held her breath. But it had been over before she knew it, and cleanly done, and now she was armed with a spray bottle of purified water/sea salt with a special fungus and bacteria-killing ingredient, which she was to apply several times a day in addition to careful cleaning of the area and use of an aftercare lotion.

She wasn’t the only one. Draco now sported a tiny, diamond-like crystal stud in his left ear. He’d done it on a whim, though secretly, he’d always thought it would be rather fun to have a pierced ear, and she’d insisted on treating him to it. Fair was fair, after all.

Back in the High Street, there was so much else to look at. They wandered up and down, perusing the shop window displays, and spent time in two bookshops, both alluring. In The Psychic Piglet, Draco pulled Hermione over to the audio section where he’d been spending time, fascinated, and plonked headphones on her, so that she could also enjoy the hypnotic drumming of Mickey Hart. She closed her eyes, smiling faintly, lost in the ancient, primal syncopation. Draco watched her closely, intrigued by her response.

 

  
The Psychic Piglet, 8 High Street, Glastonbury

 

Eventually, they wound up in Benedict Street, drawn by the lure of Witchcraft Ltd., where they promptly lost themselves wandering amongst the robes, cauldrons, potions, wands, sets of runes and scrying mirrors for divination, all of which beckoned. Whilst Draco examined a book on megalithic Europe that had caught his eye, Hermione disappeared into another part of the shop, gathering up several items on her way to the register, and reappeared a short time later, a smugly secretive grin on her face.

Draco looked up from the book and saw the glint in her eye. “Well, what’s got you looking so bloody pleased with yourself?”

“Oh, nothing,” she sighed, idly glancing at the cover of the book he held. “I’m done here. What about you?”

“Think I’m finished too, actually.” He checked his watch. “It’s nearly half three. I’d like to go up to the Tor. You up for it, then?”

“Yes, please. We could watch the sunset from there. It would be lovely, today especially,” Hermione said softly. “Let’s go.”

 

  
Witchcraft, Ltd., 10 Benedict Street, Glastonbury

 

A shuttle bus for the Tor left every half hour from a car park near the entrance to the famed Glastonbury Abbey. There had been posters advertising the shuttle in several shop windows. It wasn’t far, just a quick walk round the corner to Magdalene Street. The Abbey itself rose up, mysterious and beautiful in its fragmented state, surrounded by a lovely park, striking in its winter desolation. The bus engine idled as a number of interested passengers climbed aboard. It would be a mere £2.00 round trip for each of them.

They hadn’t been at the Tor long, exploring for perhaps only fifteen minutes, before the winter sun slipped down below the horizon. The late-afternoon clouds were suffused with peach and mauve and gold in fiery streaks that lit the lower horizon as the sun, now in a final blaze of power on this most brief of his days, erupted in a fireball before sinking out of sight. This mystical place, inextricably linked to centuries-old stories of the famed Isle of Avalon, was the perfect spot from which to see out the light of the Solstice sun and welcome the rising of the lady moon as she took her place in the night sky.

 

  
The Abbey ruins (photo by Rebecca Patrick)

 

  
Steps leading to the Tor (photo by Rebecca Patrick)

 

  
The Tor in winter

 

  
Fiery sunset behind the Tor

 

They stood watching the dying of the light, each with an arm around the other’s waist.

“Happy Yule, Granger,” Draco said quietly, tightening his embrace.

“Solstice blessings,” Hermione replied, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’ve had a wonderful day.’

“Me too,” he agreed, “but it doesn’t have to be over just yet, you know. I’ve an idea.”

They took the bus back down into town, and Draco led Hermione up Magdalene into Northload Street. There, at number eight, stood a quaint, whitewashed, two-storey hotel with red awnings above the windows and over the doorways.

 

  
The Hawthorns

 

She looked at him, a question in her eyes, and he smiled. “It’s just…I thought maybe we might book a room. Is there any way you could stop?”

“Well…” she began, thinking hard. “They do know I have a friend from college who lives not far from here. I could tell them that I rang her up and she drove in to meet us for dinner, and invited us to her house. But what about you? You’ll have to do a Floo call at least, won’t you?”

“Nope,” Draco smirked, waving his hand. “Already seen to. I told my mother this morning that I might be spending the night with a friend, the same one I saw last week. She wasn’t too pleased that I’d be away for Solstice, but…” He shrugged. This was his decision. Over the past year, he’d gradually grown used to making them for himself, and he found he rather liked it. He wasn’t about to begin backtracking now.

“Well, at least you weren’t lying, anyway,” Hermione remarked. “You sure it’s okay?” At his nod, she grinned. “Right, let’s see about that room, then. And afterwards, let’s eat! I’m starved!”

The Hawthorns offered not only rooms, but a cosy restaurant and bar with deep burgundy walls and dark ceiling beams. The specialty was ethnic cuisines, and Draco had his first ever taste of curry that evening. He wasn’t entirely sure he approved.

 

*

 

It had been a long day and the room looked awfully good to both of them as they finally unlocked the door and came inside for the night. Dropping his jacket and parcels, Draco launched himself onto the bed, landing in the centre with a deep sigh. He opened his arms in invitation, and Hermione plopped down beside him, snuggling into his embrace.

“Mmm,” she sighed. “This is _nice_ …” She buried her face in his side, scrunching her nose deeply into his shirt and tickling him. He laughed, wriggling away from her for a moment, and then pulling her back in close.

Several hours later, Draco opened first one eye and then the other on a darkened, quiet room. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, and then he became aware of gentle, even breathing by his side, and a mass of soft, curly hair partly covering his chest. There it was again, that intoxicating scent of apricots. Carefully, he slid the fingers of one hand in and began a gentle massage of her scalp; sighing contentedly, she snuggled down more deeply.

Gingerly, he rolled her off his chest and onto her back, and began slowly unbuttoning her shirt, one small, pearly button at a time.

Her skin was warm and soft as he laid the flat of his hand lightly on her bare midriff beneath the bra. As quietly as possible, he leaned over and kissed her there, his lips skating in a delicate pattern over the smooth surface of her flesh. Her chest and abdomen rose and fell rhythmically.

Blessedly, the bra she wore had a front clasp, and now he carefully unhooked it and spread the bra cups to either side. Her breasts were as beautiful as he’d remembered, and as he slid down a bit so that his head was level with her chest, he wondered how he’d done without the sight, scent, feel and taste of them for an entire nine days. He was beginning to wonder how he’d manage from here on, for more than a couple of days at a time. It was becoming increasingly difficult, when all he really wanted, he found, was to have her there in his bed at night and then wake up next to her in the morning.

No doubt about it. He had it bad.

Even in sleep, her nipples were incredibly responsive to his touch. A light flick of his tongue and then another, a kiss as gossamer as a butterfly’s touch, and they were already firming. It was all he could do to hold back, keeping his touches soft and sensuous, when what he really hungered for was to take each one in his mouth and suck it hard. He longed to squeeze each breast, crush them together so that her nipples stood straight up, and then plunge his mouth down on each one, suckling and laving and burying his face in their lush sweetness. Just the thought of what he desired from her was turning his cock almost painfully hard inside his jeans.

Rolling away from her for a moment, he wriggled out of his clothes, breathing an immediate sigh of relief. She’d sighed softly at the loss of contact, and now he returned to her, slowly unzipping and then pulling down her jeans. Then it was just a matter of those little knickers, that tiny garment that was barely there as it was—a “thong,” did she call it? Whatever its name, he made short work of it, and then commenced dropping light kisses randomly on the smooth skin of her belly and upper thighs.

“Draco…” She was still half asleep, her voice soft and drowsy.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

There was an instantaneous clenching in the pit of his stomach as a wave washed over his entire body, and its heat made him shiver. He took one breath and then another, willing his heart to stop banging uncontrollably in his chest.

Did she realise what she’d just said?

Granted, it had been said in sleep and unintentionally, but even so, it was still something she must _feel_. It had to have come from somewhere. _In somno veritas_ , he thought wryly.

He’d wondered how he would feel when this moment came, for he had known for some time that for him at least, it would-- had known, when he was being completely truthful with himself, that he loved her and had done for a while. The feeling had come on so gradually, so quietly. He wasn’t even certain when she’d crossed that line from Best Friend to Essential Person. But it had become clear to him in the past several weeks, since they’d left Oxford and he’d found himself missing her so dreadfully.

He would tell her. Very quietly. Now, when it would be easy—well, easier, anyway. A sort of trial run. See how the words felt as he rolled them around his mouth. She was half asleep anyway and might not even hear.

“I love you too.”

In the darkness, as he held his breath, his words hanging precipitously in the air, a tiny, wayward frisson of panic erupted in his stomach, and suddenly, he wished he could somehow suck those traitorous words back down and keep his own counsel just a little longer…because this was different to anything he’d ever done. Never before in his life had he felt so _exposed_. It wasn’t the words themselves. He’d said them before. But their utterance had been that of a callow, untried boy as guilty as every other male his age of confusing hormones with love.

This was different and he knew it.

Suddenly, he felt her hand in his hair, smoothing and stroking.

Lifting his head, he peered at her. Her face was indistinct in the dimness of the room, but he could see that she had sat up and now she opened her arms to him. In a heartbeat, he was lying alongside her, their bodies pressed tightly together, warm flesh connecting, moulding, each bend and curve and dip of one body filled by the corresponding fullness of the other, like puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together.

There were no other words between them, only the softest of sighs between kisses, as the last hours of this longest night of the year ebbed, and the grey dawn seeped in to cast its wan light over their forms.

 

*

 

Hours later, Draco awoke to find himself alone in the bed, the covers twisted and tangled around his lower body haphazardly. Raising himself up on one elbow, he looked around.

“Granger?”

“In here!” Her voice came from behind the door to the en-suite. “I’m having a bath! Come join me!”

The small room smelled a lot like the aromatherapy shop and for good reason. Hermione had decided to try out some of the products Draco had bought for her. She sat in a tub filled with creamy bubbles that smelled faintly of ripe pears. In her hand was the bar of honey-almond soap, which she’d begun to use to lather her body. Her hair was frothy with clots of apricot shampoo.

“This bath stuff is divine!” she told him.

Draco dipped one foot into the water and shook his head. “I’m not sure about this, Granger. I’ll smell all… fruity!”

She laughed and rubbed her soapy foot against his calf suggestively. “Oh, come on… it’ll be fun! It’s so relaxing!”

He knew he couldn’t say no. Carefully he stuck one foot into the tub and then the other, lowering himself into the hot, foamy water. He sat down in front of Hermione, and she looped her legs around his, pulling him close, and began massaging his shoulders and neck.

Her fingers felt amazing, intuitive. Knots and kinks he didn’t even know he had were being soothed and relaxed. Then her fingers moved up the back of his neck into his hair, and she began to wet it down, preparatory to washing it. The apricot shampoo smelled fresh and delicious, and he surrendered utterly to the marvelous massage she gave his scalp as she carefully lathered and then rinsed his hair. He leaned his head on her shoulder, his back pressed into her breasts as her body cradled his.

“Your hair’s getting quite long,” she murmured, moving those talented fingers gently along his hairline, smoothing the silver-blond hair off his forehead. “I like it.”

He smiled at that, his eyes closed, and sighed as her hands smoothed their way down from his forehead to his cheeks, along the column of his throat, and finally reached his chest, where they moved in idle, soapy circles across his pectoral muscles, skimming his nipples, and then dipping down to splay themselves across his abdomen. Just beyond them, the crown of his erect penis was bobbing insistently above the water line.

“Be warned, Granger,” he said mildly, his eyes still shut. “If you go any lower, you’ve had it.”

A moment later, her hand had closed around his cock and she’d given it a firm upward stroke. Quick as a wink, he turned around, pulling her forward against him so that her legs wrapped around his hips, her most private parts pressing delightfully against his swollen member.

“Mmm, am I being punished for something? Because if I am, please tell me what it is so I can do it again,” Hermione teased.

She rubbed against him, and he reached down between her legs to stroke her clit, letting just the tips of his fingers enter her and then slide out again. He was rewarded with a small, throaty moan and so he did it again and then again, until finally, she spread herself with her fingers and eased onto him, taking him in a bit at a time.

“You’re already doing it,” he groaned, cupping her breasts and squeezing them as she began to rock against him, providing perfect friction. “Oh yeah, just… just like that… … _don’t… stop_ …”

She didn’t stop, and before he could delay it, the orgasm that had begun to build deep in his testicles spiralled out of control. His balls tightened painfully, but it was an exquisite pain, and then it spread, unstoppable, moving like liquid fire along the length of his shaft, finally exploding inside her. It felt to Draco as if he would never finish emptying himself. The quivering spasms continued as every last bit of semen was wrung from him.

“Wow…” Hermione breathed, falling forward against his chest finally. “That was…”

“Yeah… it was,” Draco said weakly. He could still feel a tingling in his cock as it slipped out of her, utterly spent, and then he realised. “Shit, I’m sorry… I couldn’t stop it… you didn’t…”

The water was tepid now, the bubbles all gone, as she faced him, her hands on his shoulders. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice gentle. “It was still lovely. _You’re lovely_.”

He had never thought of himself and that word in the same sentence before, and yet, coming from Hermione, he thought he knew what she meant by it. Because he felt curiously… _pure_ , somehow, around her, and capable of giving as well as receiving.

“I meant what I said last night, you know,” she continued softly.

His head snapped up and he looked right into her eyes, which were wide open and bravely gazing back into his.

“And… I heard what you said.”

She’d been awake. She’d known exactly what she was saying and had chosen to say it. And now she was telling him again, in the light of day. And she _had_ heard him. Now he couldn’t take it back. He didn’t want to anyway. He knew that. Threading his arms around her, he drew her back into his lap, the water sloshing around them and some slopping over the side onto the floor. Holding her close, he simply nodded. For once in his life, he was speechless.

 

*

 

Later that same morning, they decided to skip breakfast in the hotel and eat instead at a pretty little café they’d noticed the day before in Magdalene Street: the Abbey Tea Rooms. There was something left undone that both were eager to accomplish before going home.

Over steaming mugs of creamy hazelnut coffee, chilled orange juice, and fresh scones with strawberry-rhubarb jam, Hermione pulled a shopping bag out of a larger bag of purchases and handed it to Draco.

“Here, Malfoy,” she said cheerfully. “These are for you. Happy Solstice! I’d meant to give them to you yesterday, but somehow the timing just didn’t work out.”

Draco grinned, feeling strangely shy all of a sudden. Presents—for him. “When did you have a chance to do this? I was with you the whole time. I don’t remember you leaving to go anywhere on your own!”

Hermione sat back and grinned. She was obviously very pleased with herself, he noted, and looked adorable.

“You had your nose in a book—what was it? Something about megalithic Europe, I think—and so I just nipped into the front of the shop and bought… well, what I bought… whilst you were still busy reading.”

 _ **The Megalithic European** by Julian Cope. Right. Must remember to pick up a copy of that book before leaving today._

He reached into the bag and pulled out a rectangular parcel wrapped in blue tissue paper decorated with silver spirals and tied with a bright, curly ribbon. It was the first of several.

Pulling on the ribbon, he carefully opened the paper and there was the very book he’d just reminded himself to buy. He looked up at her, amazed.

“You clever, sneaky girl! Thank you so much, this is fantastic,” he said, shaking his head in wonder and pleasure.

“There’s more!” she urged, her eyes shining. “Open the next one!”

This time he wasn’t quite so careful with the wrapping paper. One good tear and it was off, revealing a black leather journal with the most exquisitely detailed etching of a dragon rising into full-winged flight before a castle. Inside, the creamy, blank paper was handmade. A long thin parcel turned out to be a packet of brand-new quills along with a bottle of black ink. “Number One: Hecate’s Cauldron,” the label said. “Dark of the Moon; Reflective work; Releasing negative energy; Healing old emotional wounds.”

“I… I hope that’s okay,” she said, looking down at her folded hands for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “It’s just… I thought that maybe you might like to write in a journal once in a while, and that this ink could help make it even more… well… productive. I keep a journal, you know, and it’s great having a place where I can just say whatever I want, no matter how I’m feeling.”

He reached out for her, covering her hands with his own across the table. “It’s more than okay. It’s brilliant. Thank you, Granger. Really. I love it. You chose the dragon on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked, smiling.

She nodded, her cheeks pinking pleasurably.

“Now yours!” Draco announced, and he reached down into his own shopping bag for a small box, also gaily wrapped and tied with bright ribbons. “Here.” He pushed it across the table to her and she picked it up, intrigued.

“Oh, but you’ve already given me all those lovely aromatherapy things,” Hermione murmured, as she carefully pulled off the ribbon and took apart the folds of the wrapping paper. Inside, there was a plain, black gift box. She glanced up at Draco, smiling shyly, took a breath, and then lifted the lid.

Lying on a bed of black velvet was a perfectly wrought necklace in the shape of three moons: a full one in the centre, flanked by a crescent on each side. The orbs were of beaten silver and they hung from a delicate chain that would look like spun moonlight against Hermione’s skin.

She sat back with a small gasp of delight. “This is… oh, Draco, thank you! It’s beautiful! Wherever did you find it? And Merlin-- _when?_ ”

He sat back too, folding his arms across his chest with a cocky grin. “Piece of cake, Granger. Remember when we first arrived in The Goddess and The Green Man yesterday? You wanted to look at a book and I said--”

“ _You_ said,” Hermione said slowly, remembering now, “that you wanted to buy something for your mother.” She looked at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “That wasn’t true, was it.”

Draco chuckled. “Not strictly, no. I mean, as it turned out, I did find something for her as well, but it was you, really.”

With great care, she lifted the necklace out of its box and held it out, the chain glinting in the morning sunlight. “Help me put it on?”

His fingers tangled in the small tendrils at the back of her neck as he closed the clasp, and then they rested briefly on the warm skin there before he moved around to view it from the front.

“How does it look?” she asked, smiling, as her own fingertips danced over the silver moons.

“Perfect. Like it was made for you,” Draco pronounced. And it really did suit her. It had been an excellent choice.

Hermione leaned in and brushed his lips with her own, murmuring her thanks, and then sat back, her hand stealing up to pat the necklace every now and then.

Draco smiled at that, and took a quick sip of his coffee. “Look… um… I was wondering… have you got plans for New Year’s Eve?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing definite. One of my friends said something about a party, but nothing’s been decided.” A tiny smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “Why? Got something in mind, then, Malfoy?”

“Yeah, actually. My parents will be throwing their annual New Year’s ‘do’ and I can’t exactly skive off that. I’m expected to be there. Usually I just get good and pissed as fast as I can. But… well… I thought maybe… if you’re free, that is… I could duck out early and we could see each other-- go somewhere, maybe.”

Hermione thought for a minute as she spooned a dollop of jam on the remainder of her scone, and then a slow smile lit her face. “Hang on… I’ve just remembered something. My parents will be out for the night. I mean the _whole_ night. They’re going to a party at my aunt and uncle’s house in Surrey. _And_ they’re stopping for the night, so they won’t have to drive home late if they get a bit plastered. You _could_ …” She leaned in and ran her pointer finger lightly up his arm. “…come over after you’ve made an appearance at your parents’ party. If you _want_ to, that is.” She blushed slightly at her flirty brazenness and made to take her hand away, but Draco quickly captured it in his own.

“I _could_ ,” he agreed, moving closer to nuzzle the soft skin of her neck, his warm, ticklish breath raising gooseflesh. “Shall I?”

“Ten o’clock?” Hermione whispered, a sudden flutter in her stomach moving up to suffuse her cheeks with heat as he nipped at her and then soothed the spot with the tip of his tongue.

“I’ll be there.” His words lingered as, one finger under her chin, he turned her head to his, and then they lost themselves in a kiss that rendered coherent thought impossible.

 

  
Draco’s dragon journal and Hermione’s triple moon necklace

 

  
A cream tea at the Abbey Tea Rooms, 16 Magdalene Street

 

 

*

 

The next eight days passed in a tortuously slow round of banal activities. There were the obligatory family visits for Hermione, during which she had to put up with the irritatingly precocious behaviour of her younger cousins. For Draco, equally trying times were spent in the company of one or both of his parents, parrying questions designed to chip away at the barricades he’d erected against their curiosity. He escaped to the refuge of his room whenever possible and stayed there as much as he could.

Both of them gratefully dived into assigned and suggested readings for the forthcoming term as well. They’d deliberately chosen to sign up for another shared paper, this time Introduction to Literary Studies. Consequently, as both began to make their way through the reading list set in advance by the English faculty, a series of questions and comments were ferried back and forth by Paladin, who, Draco joked, could likely fly the route between Castle Combe and Watford in his sleep by this time. Currently they were reading Conrad’s **Heart of Darkness**.

Year’s end approached. Both Hermione and Draco were counting down the days. Not only would it bring New Year’s Eve, but it would signal the imminent return to university and the life there that both had come to really enjoy and value.

A keen awareness of the waning days of the year was not only the provenance of Draco and Hermione. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy knew only too well that their son had been at home for close to a month, and yet they were no closer to learning the truth of his potentially disastrous liaison with this unknown girl than they had been when the stink of the first rumours had made itself known.

On Sunday morning, the thirtieth of December, the Malfoys were enjoying coffee and biscotti for elevenses as the pale winter sunshine slanted across the richly worked Turkey rug in the blue drawing room. Narcissa had the seating plan for their New Year’s Eve party on her lap, and now she scrutinised it yet again with the gravity and attention of an army general planning a manoeuvre.

The mantel clock ticked on, its relentless staccato the only sound aside from the occasional hiss and crackle of the hearth fire.

Lucius took a small sip of the steaming brew and set his cup down again carefully.

“So…” he began.

His wife raised her eyes from the parchment in her lap and regarded the source of the interruption. She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“So…” Lucius repeated. “I presume that you have no further intelligence to share regarding our son’s extra-curricular excursions?”

Narcissa laid the parchment down and sighed heavily. “None, I’m afraid. Though not for lack of trying, as you know. I’ve never known him to be quite this secretive. Not with _me_ , at any rate.”

She hadn't intended to be critical, but the inference was clear. Lucius set his mouth in a grim line and nodded, acknowledging the truth of it. The inability to communicate openly with his son was a source of continuing frustration for Lucius. But it was a condition many years in the making, and it often seemed as if tearing their relationship down and then rebuilding it from scratch would require far more effort and commitment than either had the heart or the stomach for at this point. It seemed more realistic simply to accept the walls between them as a fait accompli. There didn’t seem to be much real choice in any event.

“Ah… yes. Quite.” He paused to shake off the small prickings of regret that hovered persistently at the periphery of his thoughts. “Well, then, perhaps we must simply continue biding our time. After all, we’ve heard absolutely nothing more in the last three weeks to substantiate the initial information that Elspeth so kindly provided. Your own suspicions are based merely upon maternal instincts—fine as they are, of course, don’t misunderstand me-- and a locked door.”

Narcissa prickled for a moment, but much as she would have preferred a way to argue the opposite, there was an impeccable logic to Lucius’ words that she couldn’t deny. She _had_ been biding her time for weeks now, to no avail. It appeared as if Draco would return to university the following week, leaving his parents none the wiser, but a good deal more worried. The girl’s intelligence was not at issue. If Draco were truly taken with her, she would have to be reasonably bright. But the idea that he might already have formed a serious attachment to a girl lacking the lineage, the breeding, and the social skills to hold her own in their stratum of society horrified Narcissa.

And then an even worse scenario presented itself to her: what if the girl had managed to snag Draco merely by virtue of her physical appeal alone? And what if, Merlin forbid, he’d got her pregnant and she’d trapped him with the threat of public humiliation if he abandoned her? It would be just like the social-climbing little slag to do something so devious and low!

Steady on! Narcissa mentally shook herself. Things were getting a bit out of hand—that imagination of hers needed reining in! Nevertheless, the sick headache she’d had the week before was threatening to return, and she hurriedly downed the rest of her coffee and stood.

“I suppose you are right,” she acknowledged somewhat stiffly. “Please excuse me, Lucius. I have some last-minute party details I must attend to.”

With that, she gathered her papers and marched out of the room, determined to blot out this last conversation with as much party-planning minutiae as she could manage. However, her efforts would prove to be in vain.

An hour later, Missy the house-elf knocked on the door to the master bedroom and entered timidly to stand before her mistress, holding a folded piece of paper in her small hand.

“Pardon, Mistress,” she squeaked. “I is laundering the clothes and is finding this in Young Master’s trouser pocket.” The little house-elf held out the folded paper and lowered her head, not meeting Narcissa’s eyes. “Should Missy be giving this to Young Master?”

Narcissa plucked the paper from Missy’s outstretched hand. “No, no, you did right to bring it to me. Thank you, Missy. You may go.”

When she was once again alone, Narcissa carefully unfolded the paper and studied it. It was oddly written, and contained a strange string of numbers and letters, and a reference to “Exp. Date” that made no sense at all. However, there were three pieces of information that made perfect sense to her:

 _The Hawthorns Hotel  
8 Northload Street  
Glastonbury_

And

 _22 December 1999_

and the signature at the bottom, beneath the strange numbers:

 _Draco Malfoy_

 

It was clearly a hotel receipt of some sort. So much for staying at the home of a friend from university. An obvious lie regarding his whereabouts last weekend. Far more likely that this “friend” had been with him in the hotel in… where was it? Ah. _Glastonbury. Yes_.

It had suddenly occurred to her that she was not without resources in the circumstances, and silently, she thanked Missy for the discovery of the hotel receipt. It might just prove to be a blessing in disguise.

Instantly, she went to her desk to find the contact information for a few acquaintances she was fairly sure still lived in Glastonbury.

Two hours and three Floo calls later, she had further confirmation of the mystery girl’s existence and a more complete physical description, but frustratingly, still no knowledge of her identity.

Perdita Cosgrove had been a fellow Ravenclaw in Narcissa’s year at Hogwarts, marrying and moving to Glastonbury not long after that to open up a shop. She’d done a fair bit of impressive work in both Potions and Herbology at school, and so, not surprisingly, her shop specialised in essential oils, herbal lotions, soaps and shampoos, soothing herbal elixirs for headaches and insomnia, and herb-filled sachets for pillows and scenting drawers and wardrobes. Yes, she assured Narcissa, she had certainly seen a young man of Draco’s description—and here, Narcissa had been most detailed—and Merlin, yes, she _did_ recall a young lady too, for whom, if memory served, he had purchased a number of lovely items. Longish brown hair, a bit curly, pretty face, brown eyes. She remembered the eyes particularly, as they had been large and expressive when Perdita had applied a small amount of a soothing lavender oil to her temples to demonstrate its healing properties. No, she had not overheard a name.

Alice Pilson had been a plain, mousy little thing a year behind Narcissa in Ravenclaw. She’d practically worshipped the beautiful older girl, and would have done anything Narcissa had asked of her back then. Of course, such a situation never came up, because Narcissa had barely noticed the drab little hanger-on. However, she seemed to have come into her own in the nearly twenty-five years since they had left school. Now, as owner of Profound Piercing, not only did she oversee the myriad body piercings and tattoos that people came in requesting, she had several of her own in a variety of unusual locations. She’d also turned her hair bright magenta. Narcissa had very nearly not recognised her when her head had popped through into Alice’s fireplace.

Amazingly, Narcissa struck pay dirt a second time, too, discovering that her son and his erstwhile girlfriend had indeed stopped at Profound Piercing as well. Alice made a point-- rather gleefully, Narcissa noticed—of describing the beauty and refined behaviour of the unknown girl, and then casually added the fact that she’d impulsively chosen to have her navel pierced. Alice had correctly judged that such information would not sit well with the conservative Narcissa. (The fact that her precious son now sported a tiny stud in his left ear was a small tidbit of information she decided she’d let Narcissa discover on her own, if she hadn’t noticed already.) So very sorry she couldn’t be more helpful…

The third Floo call had been largely fruitless. It was to Derek Fancheon. Ginger-haired and brilliant at school, a Slytherin in Lucius’ year and a friend as well, something had happened after they’d all left school to change him profoundly. He’d ended up marrying a Muggle, so the common gossip went, and the last anyone had heard, he was running a bookshop in Glastonbury. They’d actually seen him once since. Before his unfortunate marriage, he’d made a small killing investing in Malfoy Enterprises stock, and had actually shown up for the sake of form— briefly and alone-- at one of their parties. It was this windfall, after all, that had made the bookshop possible.

He had been surprisingly cordial to Narcissa when her head popped up in his small hearth, disturbing his lunch. If Draco and this girl had been in his shop, he hadn’t seen them, he assured her. But then, he had been in the back room a good deal of the time, doing a stock check. They might have popped in without his knowledge.

Narcissa was disappointed. If there were one type of shop in which she would have sworn Draco would spend time, it was a bookshop. And here, of all places, was where a sighting could not be substantiated.

Still. All of this put together was evidence to bring to Lucius, the most damning being that hotel receipt. And so she had done, interrupting him in the middle of a peaceful perusal of the newspaper by the fireside in his panelled study.

He had fingered the receipt, turning it over and over and studying it as if to assure himself that it really was what it seemed to be. At last, he cleared his throat to speak. His tone was dry.

“Enterprising, is he not?” His eyes flicked up to his wife’s face briefly. “Call him downstairs, Narcissa. I think it’s time we had a talk.”

 

*

 

There was a definite sense of foreboding for Draco as he walked into his father’s study. His mother sat primly in one wingchair. Lucius himself was seated in its twin, facing opposite. He gestured for Draco to sit on the sofa between the two of them, and warily he did so, the leather cushion making a slight whooshing sound as it compressed beneath his weight.

Wordlessly, Lucius handed the incriminating hotel receipt to his son, who took it and skimmed it in a glance, feeling himself blanch and hoping it wouldn’t be noticed.

He looked up, and his gaze locked with his father’s. He swallowed. “Yes?”

“What is the meaning of this?” Lucius asked, his voice not much louder than a whisper and dangerously calm.

“It’s… what you see. Clearly.” His attempts at buying some time were fairly feeble and he feared they would collapse before very long.

Lucius stood then, and moved directly in front of Draco, who resisted the urge to look up. The physical proximity was daunting, exactly the effect his father wanted.

“Do not toy with me, Draco. I believe you already know what a mistake that can be. Explain yourself. _Now_.” He took a step back and resumed his seat, folding his hands in his lap and fixing an unwavering gaze on Draco.

“Well, I… I was in Glastonbury last weekend. _Obviously_.” Draco stared down at the receipt, cursing himself for not remembering to take it out of his pocket and wondering how the bloody fuck his parents had come into possession of it. Part of his brain raced to put together a reasonable explanation. The other knew it was probably already futile. “Change of plans. Last minute. And… um…we… my friend from uni… Ian, his name is… it got late, you know, and we… we were feeling a bit manky… too much to drink, you see… so… so… we got a room in the hotel so we could sleep it off. That’s it. That’s what happened.” He exhaled a pent-up breath and chanced a look at his parents, who had caught each other’s eye briefly and now presented twin expressions that were unreadable. He soldiered on with a smile that was all bravado, and stood.

They sat there, unmoving, impassively stony-faced, eyebrows slightly raised. He began sidling to his left, then, working his way round to the other side of the sofa, with the ultimate aim of a quick escape. If his parents were silent now, he knew better than to believe it was because he was miraculously off the hook.

He’d only been gone a minute before Narcissa turned to Lucius. “You know he’s lying, of course.”

“Of course. But he does think rather well on his feet, you have to give him that.” _Of course he does. No great surprise_. Pushing aside a small, rather perverse nugget of pride that threatened to bring a traitorous grin to his face—Narcissa would most definitely not appreciate _that_ , he reckoned-- he continued. “It appears we’re no further along than we were before, except now, we know that this affair…”-- Narcissa winced at that word-- “Sorry, my love, this… _relationship_ of his must be fairly serious. A night in this hotel plus dinner cost him a pretty packet, I can tell you!”

“How much?” Narcissa asked, concerned.

“In Muggle currency, it came to £100. Twenty Galleons, in other words.” Lucius had had to become familiar with the world’s currencies in his business dealings and now his quick mind was able to do the more common conversions fairly easily. “A nice piece of change.”

“What can we do?” Narcissa wailed. “He’s so headstrong!”

“He is that,” Lucius mused, nodding. “I confess, I’m stumped for the moment, Cissa. We’ve simply got nothing hard and fast to go on at this point. It’s all hearsay, albeit fairly reliable hearsay. By the way,” he said mildly, walking her to the door. “Did you notice? Perhaps not. His hair _is_ rather long these days.”

Narcissa turned. “Notice what?”

“He was wearing an earring.”

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Continued heartfelt thanks to my betas, kazfeist and mister_otter, who are extraordinary: sharp-eyed, meticulous, totally engaged, and very responsive and supportive—in other words, everything a writer could possibly want! Love to you both!
> 
> Thanks also to everyone at HP_Britglish, for their generous help and patience with my many questions!
> 
> Thanks to Robin J., for his much-appreciated Britpickery!
> 
> Thanks to moonjameskitten, as always, for her lovely banner, which adds so much to each chapter and provides me with ongoing inspiration as I write.
> 
> All of the Glastonbury shops mentioned in this chapter are real. The wizarding proprietors, however, are not, though I suspect there are folk very like them around town!
> 
> Mickey Hart has put out many solo CDs (my favourite is Planet Drum), but he is probably best known for being the drummer for the Grateful Dead.


	14. The Die is Cast

 

  
  
Malfoy Manor

 

31 December  
Monday evening

 

Draco lay stretched out on his bed, arms pillowed behind his head, listening. Beyond the quiet confines of his bedroom, Malfoy Manor was humming with activity. In just a couple of hours’ time, the house would be filled with people: close friends of his parents he’d known virtually his entire life, business associates of his father’s, Ministry officials Lucius felt it worthwhile to keep on the good side of, major stockholders in Malfoy Enterprises. In addition, there were influential members of society in business and the arts, both pureblood and not, the Malfoys making every effort to very visibly support the Ministry’s policies with regard to rapprochement between the various segments of the wizarding community.

At the moment, Draco could picture precisely what was happening downstairs. House-elves were rushing about getting the last-minute details of the party in order. Exquisite foods would be cooking in the large kitchen, white wines and vintage champagne would be chilling whilst reds would soon be decanted, bottles of choice Old Ogden’s and fine, old brandies were being set out along with crystal in a variety of sizes and shapes appropriate to the drink. As always—because this party _was_ an annual event at Malfoy Manor and an invitation a prized commodity—the Grand Ballroom was set with tables all very elegantly appointed with the best silver, crystal and china, and adorned with lavish but tasteful floral arrangements. The Great Hall would receive the guests first, for drinks and hors d’oeuvres of all sorts, those tiny, delectable finger foods that Draco often couldn’t identify but that melted quite agreeably in his mouth. He could hear the musicians tuning up their instruments even now.

It was one of Narcissa’s particular pleasures to oversee all aspects of the party. She’d decided years before that it was a good outlet for her artistic potential, sadly untapped, and so she threw herself into the planning and executing of everything from the colour scheme of the linens to the menu to the accompanying floral arrangements, with renewed verve every year. The menu was one of her particular passions. Truth to tell, she loved to cook but so rarely got the opportunity. Consequently, she’d long ago decided to dispense with the services of a hired party planner, even though Wilhelmina Carstairs, the premiere choice amongst the best wizarding families whenever they had an event for which to plan a lavish meal, had long been eager—anxious, even—to put together a menu for the much-touted Malfoy New Year’s Eve bash. The menu was Narcissa’s province alone, and the compliments that were invariably showered on her both during and after the party were just so many feathers in her cap.

Draco lay there, thinking and planning. It was close to six now. He’d have a good, long, leisurely soak in the tub. Afterwards he’d shave, and then dress for the evening. The guests would start arriving at about eight. He’d be right downstairs in the entrance hall with his parents to greet them, like the well-bred scion of an ancient wizarding family should be. He had a strong suspicion that at least one of those guests whose blue-blooded arses he’d be kissing was the very person who had likely twigged his parents to the fact that he’d been in Diagon Alley with a girl. Assuming that was what had indeed happened. But odds were, it was.

He’d dearly love to have known who it was. However, the fact that he would very likely never know did not disturb him much. The damage had been done. Now it was just a matter of controlling it. And he would be damned if he betrayed the slightest concern or even awareness of the situation to any of these people. He knew their sort only too well. He’d grown up with them and he knew the depth to which their self-serving arrogance and elitism could extend. He was a product of it. He’d perpetuated it himself for too many years of his young life.

No, he’d smile and chat pleasantly to everyone, spout the usual tosh and laugh at the usual inane jokes. And he’d be able to do it because he would know that ten o’clock would see him slipping quietly away, ostensibly to use the loo if anyone happened to ask. Soon after, he’d be in Hermione’s house. And nobody would be the wiser.

He smiled with satisfaction as he reflected on the beauty of the plan, taking particular pleasure in the complete irony of it. He glanced at the bedside clock. A quarter past six. Time to get the show on the road.

Nine o’clock found Draco surrounded by a throng of his parents’ friends, all of whom seemed inordinately taken with the very fact of his attendance at Oxford. Most often they were surprised, sometimes curious or even intrigued, and occasionally appalled, though that last response was thinly veiled, the only clue a slight curling of the lip along with the requisite raised eyebrow. Gritting his teeth, he held his own, smiling agreeably and forcing himself to give polite, well-modulated replies to the many questions. It occurred to him that it was very like being grilled by a well-meaning, doddery old aunt who hadn’t seen him in ages—times about a hundred. He also felt rather like he’d just come back from an expedition roughing it in a remote and very backward tribal culture, and now all the refined, civilised folk were clamouring for him to explain the strange ways of the natives.

“Draco, dear!” Elspeth Parkinson gushed. “However did you live without magic for such a long time!” She looked around at her cronies and gave a light trill of laughter. “I’m sure _I_ couldn’t manage it.”

“It really wasn’t so bad, Mrs. Parkinson, once I got used to it. Not bad at all,” he replied, and turned to pluck a slender flute of champagne from a silver tray on the nearby buffet table. He studied the effervescent liquor in the light of the many floating candles for a moment and then took a sip. “In fact, I expect I must have seemed a bit of a tosser sometimes, trying to learn how to do my own laundry or order take-away or shop for a few groceries in the supermarket. The Muggles were remarkably tolerant.” _Much more so than I ever would have been in the past._

“What is a ‘supermarket’?” somebody wondered.

“What in Merlin’s name is ‘take-away’?” somebody else muttered.

“ _I_ heard that the Goldstein boy is getting on quite well at University College, in London. Imagine. Though of course _he’s_ not actually _living_ amongst Muggles. I don’t suppose, Draco,” said Sylvia Goyle, “that you are in touch with Anthony… are you?” 

“No, we were never friends at school,” Draco replied shortly, slight annoyance briefly clouding his eyes as he tossed down the remainder of his champagne. The implicit criticism was fairly plain. He gave a furtive glance to his watch. 9.15. They would be heading into the Grand Ballroom momentarily for dinner. Fortunately, Theo Nott, Greg Goyle, and Blaise Zabini were all in attendance—probably forced into it by their parents, Draco thought sourly—so at least he had three mates with whom he could get a little bit of a buzz going before making his getaway.

All the offspring of the Malfoys’ closest friends—those who’d had their arms twisted sufficiently, that is, or in the case of the girls, those who were still hoping to catch Draco’s eye—were seated at the same table. Pansy sat with Millie Bulstrode, Portia Nott, Eliza Goyle, Angeline Parmentier, and Lydia Farnsworth. Ordinarily, the ratio of females to males at the table would have delighted Draco as much as it clearly did his friends. Except that none of these girls held the slightest interest for him anymore, nor ever did, really. Well, let them twitter and giggle and bat their eyes as much as they wanted. No doubt Theo, Blaise and Greg would be eager candidates for a hook-up. Fine with him. He had plans of his own.

Everyone had divided themselves up according to sex, with a nearly even split down the middle of the large, round table. All the girls were together on one side and were busy chatting animatedly amongst themselves. On the other, Blaise and Greg flanked Draco, with Theo over to Blaise’s right. They’d turned their chairs away from the table so that they could face each other, whilst waiting for dinner to be served. A clutch of glasses were lined up on the table behind them, magically replenishing themselves at their owners’ requests.

“Why do you keep doing that, mate?” Blaise asked pointedly. He waggled a finger at Draco’s wrist.

“Doing what?” Draco decided to play dumb and see where the question was leading.

“ _That!_ You jus’ did it again!” Blaise was slurring his words slightly. He never had been very good at holding his drink, Draco remembered.

“Just checking the time, mate,” Draco said smoothly.

“Why?” Theo had leaned in. He was curious too. Perhaps this had something to do with that girl Draco had used him as a cover for. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes.” Draco sat back and waited, smiling serenely.

“Don’t play with us, you wanker! Where and who? Details, man!” Blaise was a lot more sober suddenly.

Draco thought for half a second and then came to a decision. “Got a private little party of my own a bit later, if you must know…” he began, enjoying dangling them just a bit longer.

“ _AND?_ ” his friends cried in unison.

“Fuck’s sake!” Theo hissed, his face very close to Draco’s. “I covered your arse, Malfoy! The least you can do is tell us!”

Draco grinned. He’d just downed another shot of firewhiskey and was feeling no pain. “Okay, but you’re not gonna believe it.”

All four of them leaned in together for the big revelation. Blaise, Theo and Greg looked at each other, and then back at Draco. “ _Who??_ ” they whispered.

“Granger.”

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

“Hang on,” Blaise said slowly. “You’re saying…you’re saying that you and Mu-- _Hermione_ Granger…” His voice faded away as he sat back, gobsmacked.

“Yep,” Draco said cheerfully. “That’s the one.”

Theo shook his head in disbelief and let out a low whistle. “Fucking hell, Draco…”

Greg could only utter one word: “How?”

A sudden, searing recollection of the horrific fire and Hermione’s part in saving his life flashed into his mind at the mention of her name.

“Well,” Draco began, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Ran into her at uni the first week of term. I’d seen her around before that, ‘cos we’re in the same college, you see. Like being in the same house. Had a lecture together and shared a tutorial. So I… asked her out for a coffee. On a whim. Not sure why, exactly. Familiar face from our world, maybe? But she looked really good, too, you know? Whatever… Anyway, we had coffee. We talked. We actually talked. I liked that. So… I… asked her to my room.”

At this, the three others shared a significant glance and then directed their gaze back to Draco.

“Go on, mate,” Greg urged. “Did she come?”

A few chortles at the innuendo, and then silence.

“She must have done, you twat!” Theo elbowed Greg good-naturedly. “Otherwise tonight wouldn’t be happening! Then what, Draco?”

This story was beginning to take on epic proportions as Draco’s audience sat, transfixed, their dinner forgotten. Across the table, the girls had begun to notice the four boys in a huddle and were feeling a bit neglected. One of them began to protest, only to be silenced by an agitated, backwards wave of the arm from Blaise.

“Yeah, she did. And we talked some more. Long story short, over time, we got sort of… well… close. Yeah, _close_. I mean, for starters, we had this joint assignment so we _had_ to spend a lot of time together…”

“Nice bit of manoeuvring, Malfoy,” Blaise snorted. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around this news. It was surreal.

Draco shook his head and laughed. “No, actually, that was her idea. Took me by surprise, but I… well, I was intrigued. Thing is, she was really… well, she listened to me. Didn’t throw the past in my face. And she could have done. She had every right, considering I was a total shit to her for years. Well, anyway—the upshot is, I’ve been, you know … _seeing_ her.” Then,  _Oi._ Not a word. To _anyone_. My parents’ll go spare.”

The others nodded solemnly. It would go no further. Slytherin’s honour.

He sat back and folded his arms, waiting for the inevitable final question. It took about ten seconds. Theo nipped in with it first.

“You shagging her, then?”

Draco Malfoy had a code of honour, even amongst Slytherin brothers. He never kissed and told. And he certainly wasn’t about to begin now. He merely gave them a lazy smile, looked at his watch—fifteen before ten—and stood.

“ ’Scuse me. Need to have a piss.”

And then he smiled again, winked, and walked quickly out of the room, leaving his friends to look enviously after him, and then speculate feverishly about how much he was getting, whether she was any good, and _bloody hell_ , were her tits as gorgeous as they’d hinted at being, beneath her robes?

 _Mudblood Granger_. What the bloody fuck was he thinking? They’d never have predicted this in a million years.

 

*

 

Draco stood in the en-suite adjoining his bedroom and gave himself a last look in the mirror. He’d just taken a rather disgusting Sober-Up potion to clear the firewhiskey cobwebs from his head, and then he brushed his teeth quite thoroughly, splashed some cold water on his face, and ran a comb through his hair. Oh yes—one more thing. Bit of cologne-- _not too much, don’t want to overpower her_ —there, very good. He’d changed out of his dress robes and into those snug-fitting, black jeans Hermione liked so much, topping it off with a cream-coloured, cashmere turtleneck jumper. Very soft, very sensual to the touch. She would like it, he was certain. He reached down and patted his pocket, smiling. There, hardly more than the size of a penny, was the chilled bottle of Krug Brut Grande Cuvée that he’d magically Shrunk and stealthily pocketed earlier in the evening, well before the guests had started to arrive.

Right, then. Ready. Closing his eyes, he took a breath and vanished.

Back at their table in the Grand Ballroom, Lydia Farnsworth suddenly looked around and said querulously, “Where’s Draco anyway?”

The three boys’ eyes flicked briefly at each other, and then Blaise replied, “Oh you know him. He’s so vain, he’s probably washing his hair again or something. He’ll be back.”

“Shite, Zabini, what a load of utter bollocks!” Theo hissed. “Is _that_ the best you could come up with?”

Mollified for the moment, however, Lydia turned back to her dinner, deciding to focus her flirting skills on Theo, with whom her mother had tried, unsuccessfully thus far, to match her up.

 

*

 

The lights were low in the sitting room when Draco appeared there seconds later. A good fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and candles were lit all along the mantel, carefully set amongst the holiday greenery. A festively decorated evergreen tree stood in one corner.

Hermione had been sitting on the sofa, waiting, and now she stood.

“Hey,” she said, and took his hands. “You look so nice.” She leaned closer and sniffed around his neck. “Mmm, you smell good, too! What is that, anyway?”

He laughed. “Hey, leave off! That tickles! It’s called Cool Water. Bought it at Tesco just before we left Oxford. I was saving it.”

Hermione sniffed again, burying her nose in the skin just below his ear. “Spicy… I like it!”

“Well, thanks, glad you approve,” Draco said with a cheeky grin and then his voice dropped, turning husky. “So, Granger… got a kiss for me?”

Hermione looked up into his smiling eyes, threw her arms around him, and pressed a fervent kiss on his mouth.

“Hmm. That’s more like it,” he teased. “So—what’ve you got planned for tonight then? Wild, decadent sex in every room?” He smiled wickedly, waggling his eyebrows as he tightened his arms around her waist.

“Well, not _every_ room… I do have to be able to sit at the kitchen table every morning and look my parents in the eye, you know!” Hermione laughed, threading her fingers through his belt loops. “But somehow, I think we’ll manage.” One hand slid over his back pocket and she stopped. “What’s this?”

“Right—almost forgot. I brought a bottle of bubbly.” Draco drew the tiny bottle out of his pocket and muttered a quick spell to bring it back to its proper size. He held it out to Hermione. “It’s a really nice one. I don’t think it’ll be missed, though. They had a slew of them for the party.”

“Oh, lovely-- thanks! I bought some today, so we’ll have lots!” Pleased, she took the bottle and stuck it in the ice bucket on a small table nearby, where the second bottle was already chilling. Then she went to the tree and picked up the one remaining present beneath it.

“Before I forget—this is from my parents. Here,” she said, handing it to him as they sat down together on the sofa. “No clue what it is. Mum didn’t tell me.”

Draco was momentarily stunned. A gift from the Grangers. It was totally unexpected. Roughly five inches by eight in diameter, the gift was wrapped in silver tissue paper and tied with a forest-green ribbon also edged in silver. Draco wondered if Hermione had mentioned his house colours or if Claire had a phenomenally good memory for that sort of thing. Either way, it was a very sensitive gesture to have made.

“Shall I open it now?” he asked, fingering the package.

She nodded, settling herself next to him and tucking her legs up underneath her. “Please! I’m dying of curiosity!”

“Okay,” he smiled, and carefully undid the wrapping paper and the ribbon. It was a book, he wasn’t surprised to discover, but the choice of book was a pleasant surprise. It was **The Winter King: A Novel of Arthur** , the first of Bernard Cornwell’s Warlord Chronicles series. He glanced quickly at Hermione.

“How did your mum know I’m into Bernard Cornwell now?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, a corner of his mouth quirking up.

Hermione shrugged, smiling, and said carelessly, “Oh, well, I might have mentioned something about it when she asked me what you’re reading these days.”

“I see!” He nodded, and opened the book to look at the frontispiece. There was an envelope stuck inside. A card, he presumed, and opened the flap to look. There was indeed a festive holiday card wishing him a happy new year.

“Oh, may I see it, please?” she asked, and he handed the card over.

Whilst she was busy reading it, he picked up the book once again, and something fell out. It was another envelope, a bit smaller than the last one. He opened it.

Inside was a copy of the photo of Hermione he had been so taken with at dinner that night two and a half weeks earlier. Stuck to the back was a post-it with a scrawled message from Hermione’s mother.

“Because you liked it so much. Fondly, Claire.”

There she was again, that tiny, innocent girl entranced with the rose she was holding, the summer sunlight dancing off her hair, her expression so very serious. He knew that expression. He’d seen it often—when she was hard at work studying or writing, whenever she read a book that utterly enchanted her, when she was absorbed in trying to work out a problem, that expression was there.

Quickly, he replaced the photo in its envelope and slipped it into his back pocket for safekeeping. Hermione need not know. She’d probably be embarrassed that her mother had given it to him. He mustn’t forget to send a note of thanks. With a grin he couldn’t repress, he turned to her.

“What now?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “Food, I thought… have you eaten? Something for afters, at least? We’ve all sorts of good stuff in the fridge!”

“Actually, I didn’t really eat much of anything,” Draco admitted. “A few hors d’oeuvres and then drinks, mostly. _Oh_ \--” He suddenly remembered. “I told some people about you.”

Her head shot up from his new book, which she’d been idly examining. “You did? Who?”

He took the book from her, placed it on the coffee table, and then pulled her into his lap before continuing. “Well,” he said, beginning to play with one of her curls, “there was Zabini, and Nott and Goyle as well. That’s it.”

She twisted around to look at him squarely. “Why? Not that I mind, but… well, I didn’t know you’d planned to, that’s all.”

“I hadn’t, actually. But Theo knew I’d been seeing somebody. Remember I told you I’d used him as a cover the day we spent in London? Tonight… well… we’d been drinking a bit, and Blaise noticed me looking at my watch a few times. Asked me why. I said more than I should have, I suppose… said I had somewhere else to be. After that, they wouldn’t let it go until I told them. But you know what?” He looked her in the eye and grinned. “I’m glad I did.”

“But… what if it gets back to your parents?” Her mouth was turned down slightly in a worried frown.

“If it does, it does. It’s bound to eventually. Though it would be better if it came from me, of course.”

“Maybe,” Hermione mused, “you’re almost hoping it does come out some other way. You’re off the hook then. It’s a fait accompli.”

Draco shot a quick glance at her. “Hmm… you might be right. I have to admit I haven’t exactly been looking forward to that particular conversation. Not because I’m ashamed of us or anything!” he hastened to add, looking at her quickly to make sure she wasn’t upset. On the contrary, she seemed positively sanguine now.

“I know that,” she smiled, and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Come on, Malfoy—let’s see what we can scrounge from the fridge!” She slipped off his lap and pulled him up from the sofa.

And with that, they pushed the troubling conversation out of their minds.

 

*

 

“Some lovely apple tart. We could have that with cream later. Part of a roast chicken. Mm, that looks good. Here,” she said, handing the covered plate to him. Onto the centre island it went, along with other assorted dishes she’d already salvaged from the well-stocked fridge. “Ooh, spinach salad, yum.” She turned to him. “Do you like spinach salad, then?”

“I might do. Let’s have it and I’ll give it a try.”

It became a sort of impromptu picnic by the fireside. Hermione spread out a tablecloth on the floor and then they set out the roast chicken, the salad, a wedge of cheddar cheese and some biscuits, a bit of leftover fettuccine Alfredo, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, nicely chilled, to add to the bottle Draco had brought.

Finally, sated and quite full, Draco leaned back on one elbow, a glass of champagne in hand, and sighed. “That was a _feast_ , Hermione! Brilliant. So much better than the posh, tarted-up food at my parents’ thing.”

“Really?” Big smile.

“Really.”

 

*

 

Two hours later—

 

The many candles on the mantel flickered, their spicy aroma scenting the air. The fire was burning low in the grate. Hermione had turned all the lamps off and now the two of them snuggled under a shared quilt on the sofa, watching old movies. Hermione’s legs were flung over Draco’s as they stretched out onto the coffee table. They’d polished off the apple tart, liberally slathered with thick cream (one bowl straight from the fridge, two spoons) as well as the champagne Draco had brought, and were now well into the second bottle. “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” had just ended. It was always one of the Grangers’ favourites and Hermione’s as well, having grown up with old Monty Python reruns on the telly. Thinking about it, they couldn’t help laughing again.

“What about,” Draco sputtered, “when the Black Knight gets all his limbs chopped off and that bloke-- you know, the one who plays King Arthur-- says, ‘Look, you stupid bastard, you’ve got no arms left!’ And the knight says, ‘Yes I have,’ and then…”

“And then King Arthur says, ‘Look!’ and the silly knight says, ‘It’s… it’s just…” At this, Hermione started giggling uncontrollably and couldn’t get the words out.

“Just a flesh wound!” Draco gasped. “And… and the knights who say ‘Nih’ and demand a shrubbery! A _shrubbery!_ ” He leaned back and laughed helplessly, tears starting in his eyes.

“Ah,” Hermione said, when she could speak, “but don’t forget about ze French taunters atop ze castle, eh?” She pointed a finger at Draco and said sternly, in a ridiculous French accent, ‘I fart in your general direction, you son of an English pig-dog!’ ”

“You do, eh?” Draco cried, clouting her with a sofa pillow. “Well, now, _that’s_ a bit rude!”

She came right back at him with a good pillow-smack to the head (“Oi! Watch the hair!’) and then it degenerated into a general tickle fest.

Finally, he had her pinned, both of them breathing hard.

“You are _not_ acting like a gentleman,” Hermione announced primly and then giggled and let out a small hiccough.

“I beg your pardon, my girl. I am acting very much like a gentleman,” Draco informed her solemnly. “If I were not, I’d have had all your clothes off by now.”

It was true. She was wearing a clingy little red Henley top, ribbed with a scoop neck, and a denim mini-skirt over a pair of black Capri leggings. He noticed she’d gone bra-less tonight. Leaning over her, he leered at her cleavage.

“Oh yes. I would most definitely--” He softly nuzzled her suprasternal notch. “Have--” Opening the top button, he dropped a light kiss on the swell of her left breast. “Relieved--” The second button was next, and her right breast was favoured. “You--” The third button popped open with very little effort, and he delicately licked a path between her breasts, where she tasted slightly salty. “Of _all_ your--” The last button came undone, and he parted the two sections of the shirt as far as they would go. “Clothes.”

He’d been eyeing her breasts appreciatively for some time, particularly when her nipples would harden suddenly. They drew his gaze like a moth to a flame. A couple of times she had caught him staring, and she’d coloured, dropping her eyes. But she’d been smiling too. Now, with that final word, he swiftly pulled the shirt down just enough to bare her breasts completely, and dipped his head to tickle first one erect little bud with his tongue and then its twin. She sighed pleasurably and arched her back. He kissed both breasts once more, and then trailed soft caresses up her throat to her jaw and her chin, finally reaching her mouth—and then he had an idea.

“Come,” he said quietly, lifting himself off her. “By the fire is nicer.” He picked up the quilt and spread it out where the tablecloth had been, prodded the logs a bit so that the fire flared up again just a little, and then held out his hand to her. She sank down onto the quilt and in the firelight, she was more beautiful than he had ever remembered seeing her. Her skin looked like gilded ivory and her eyes were bright and lustrous, the lights from the flames kindled in them. Glints of reddish gold sparked in her hair.

He reached for her, drawing her into a deep and hungry kiss, and then their hands were everywhere at once, frantically pulling and tugging on clothing, fumbling with zippers and buttons, shedding every stitch with a speed neither knew they were capable of.

The fire produced a soothing heat as they sat, lulled into sudden quiescence after the feverish activity, their naked limbs illuminated by its flickering glow. Draco leaned over and stroked Hermione’s cheek, and gazed at her. He felt he could truly breathe here, with her, and yet, paradoxically, as if he couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs. Slowly and with great delicacy, he traced a path on her soft skin, and then, cupping her cheek in his palm, leaned in and claimed her mouth.

When, an hour later, a deliciously drowsy and quite delightfully relaxed Hermione sat up and glanced at the mantel clock, her eyes widened and she clapped her hand to her mouth in consternation.

“Merlin, it’s past one! Oh no, we’ve missed it!”

“Have we?” Draco had been comfortably stretched out by her side, curled around her from behind. “Ah well…” He took hold of her hand and pulled her back down into the snug position she’d just vacated, her back pressed into his chest and his cock nestled against her bum and beginning to stir again. “Happy New Year, love.” He threaded an arm around her and wriggled against her contentedly, dropping a kiss onto her shoulder.

She pressed a kiss into the palm of his hand. “Happy New Year, Draco,” she murmured. “Gods, it’s 2000! I can’t believe it. Oh, I wish we hadn’t missed it!”

“But we didn’t, not really. It’s all in front of us, don’t you see? The whole new year. What’s the difference if we missed the exact moment? I’d much rather,” he whispered, nuzzling the back of her neck, “have been doing what we were doing at the time… Do you remember what that was?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione admitted, and then a sly smile crossed her face. “Remind me.”

“Well… I believe I was doing a bit of _this_ \--” he pinched her waist, making her squirm. “And a little of _this_ \--” Again, another tickle, this time under her ribs. “And oh yeah, some of _this_ too--” He crooked his fingers under her left arm, her most ticklish spot, and she struggled in his grasp, laughing, until she’d twisted around to face him.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” she giggled. “We were otherwise occupied!”

“And most enjoyably so,” he murmured, moving closer for a kiss, then another, and a third. “Mmm… you taste like apples and cinnamon and champagne…” He paused to lick his lips, suddenly thoughtful. “Hermione… when do you expect your parents home?”

“Tomorrow—well, that is, later today—middle of the afternoon sometime.” She reached up to stroke his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “Why?”

“I thought… well, I could stay…if you want me to, that is,” he replied, looking intently into her eyes.

“I want you to,” she answered simply, a slight blush staining her cheeks. “Would you like to go upstairs now? My bed is much more comfortable than the floor. We can tidy up later.”

 

*

 

Noon on New Year’s Day found the two of them sound asleep in Hermione’s bed, buried under the floral-print duvet. Downstairs, the quilt was still spread on the sitting room rug. In the kitchen, dirty dishes waited in the sink. Two empty champagne bottles stood in a pool of tepid water in the ice bucket.

Richard and Claire Granger had enjoyed the New Year’s Eve party they’d been to, and had been thoroughly grateful not to have to face the M25 late at night after a generous amount of drink. However, morning saw them eager to make a start towards home, and so they had bade their hosts goodbye, with thanks, and piled into the car.

Traffic was decent, none of the nutters who had probably populated the roads in the very early morning hours of the new year, and they pulled into their own driveway at twenty-three minutes past twelve.

The garage stood off to the side of the house just beyond Hermione’s bedroom windows, and the sound of a car door slamming reverberated through the heavy haze of sleep fogging her brain. She opened one eye. The next sound caused the other to fly open in alarm. It was the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the front door lock.

She shot up in bed, frantically clutching Draco’s bare shoulder and shaking it.

“Wake _UP!_ ” she hissed, in a complete panic. “My parents are home _EARLY!_ ”

Draco peered up at her blearily, his recalcitrant brain refusing to process this information so early in the day after a proper New Year’s Eve blowout. Which last night into early this morning had most definitely been.

“Malfoy, _PLEASE!_ ” Hermione sounded on the verge of both hysteria and tears. “Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll take care of that! Just _go!_ ”

Downstairs, Claire and Richard had come into the sitting room and taken in the scene. One plus one most definitely added up to two, and they glanced warily at each other, Claire trying hard to suppress a most un-parental twitching of the lips as her eyes traveled around the room and then up above their heads. Richard, on the other hand, looked disturbed and began to walk towards the staircase landing. Quickly, Claire grabbed his wrist to stop him, shaking her head.

“Richard, don’t! Give them a minute!” she whispered. “Remember when we were their age, and you…”

“Okay, okay,” he sighed, defeated, and sat down on the sofa instead, trying not to look at the quilt on the floor.

“Hermione,” Claire called out as she, too, sat down, her voice trilling musically. “We’re home, sweetheart!”

Upstairs, Draco hurriedly yanked on his jumper and jeans, though not his boxers. They had mysteriously gone missing. He was still sticky from their most recent lovemaking sessions, during which some of those scented, flavoured oils he’d bought Hermione in Glastonbury had finally been put to excellent and very tasty use, as well as what was left of the very rich and decadent chocolate Hermione had bought in Notting Hill. In addition to this, between their vigourous activities and the usual movements during sleep, his hair now stuck up in several different directions. He ran a hand through it in a failed attempt to calm it down.

Hastily pulling on his shoes over bare feet (his socks having gone the way of his boxers, apparently), he stood up, his heart racing. Hermione, two spots of pink high on her cheeks, grabbed him in a fierce hug.

“Happy New Year, Malfoy!”

“Happy New Year, Granger!”

Their mouths met in a frantic crash of a kiss and then separated with a pop as they pulled apart.

“I--” he began.

“Me too!” she breathed, kissing him again rather desperately, and then gave his bum a swat. “Now _please_ go before they find you!”

When Claire and Richard knocked on her door thirty seconds later, he was gone.

 

*

 

The drapes were drawn in his bedroom when he reappeared there seconds later. It was so dim that his eyes needed a moment to adjust.

He found himself in the middle of the floor near to the foot of his bed, and gratefully, he began to move in that direction, intending to undress and have a long bath followed by an invigorating shower. He smelled like a fruit basket and a sweet shop combined: passion fruit, cocoanut, raspberry, vanilla, and chocolate—and he reeked of sex. There had been rather a lot of it over the course of the night and into the early morning hours. The night had been young at half past one, when they’d made their way to Hermione’s bedroom.

In one fluid move, he peeled the cashmere jumper away from his sticky skin, pulled it over his head, balled it up, and threw it onto the bed, and then went to take off his jeans. He’d got the button undone and the flies halfway unzipped—very carefully, mind, so as not to cause himself a painful injury-- when he heard a faint “ahem.”

He froze.

He had an audience. An audience of two, to be precise.

His mother sat on the small sofa adjacent to the fireplace and his father sat alongside her, their backs very straight, their feet planted firmly on the floor, and their hands in their laps.

“Good afternoon, Draco,” Lucius said pleasantly. “How nice you’ve decided to come home after… how long has it been now?… a mere fourteen and a half hours after disappearing from a very important social occasion for our family, one that means a great deal to your mother. Just as a matter of interest and oh, say, a bit of idle curiosity, where exactly have you been?”

Slowly, he pulled up the zipper once again and sank down on the end of his bed. _FuckFuckFUCK!_ Relief that he hadn’t actually dropped his trousers and been caught totally starkers flooded him. He was already embarrassed enough, and felt rather like a helpless animal caught in a hunter’s trap. This one had been very neatly sprung, he had to concede. What was it that desperate animals did sometimes to free themselves—gnaw their trapped legs off? He wondered what the human equivalent might be.

“I… um…” he started, his ordinarily agile and inventive mind truly drawing a blank this time.

“Goodness,” Narcissa interjected delicately, “whatever is that odour? Have you been rolling in a bin of rotten fruit and…” She sniffed again. “What _is_ that? _Chocolate?_ ”

The two of them leaned forward in their seats and trained their gaze directly on him. Instinctively, he leaned back a bit.

“Well?” Lucius’ tone remained quite cordial, but there was a steely undertone that Draco knew well.

“I… um… dropped in on a friend I’d promised to see… didn’t expect to be gone long… got drunk… New Year’s Eve and all that… passed out and didn’t wake up till just before, and then I just… I just Apparated home.”

“Ah.” Lucius smiled, and gracefully splayed his hands on his knees. “So it was a young wizard friend, then? Who, if I might ask?”

Now Draco was really stuck. All his friends had been at last night’s party. He scrambled to come up with a name that would be reasonable in his parents’ eyes. One dropped into his head like a gift, and silently he blessed Nott’s mother and her annoying gossip. This small bit of it might just save him now.

“Uh… uh… Goldstein! Anthony Goldstein. Right. You remember him, don’t you—Ravenclaw, very bright chap, he’s at University College in London now.” He leaned back against one of the bedposts, the oils on his skin causing his back to slide on the wood.

“Anthony Goldstein. Yes. Quite. The young man you told Sylvia Nott you weren’t in touch with because you hadn’t been friendly at school. Same fellow?”

Draco looked askance at his father, who merely shrugged, saying, “She just happened to mention it in conversation.”

Now he really was trapped. He sat there, his mind shutting down in numbed protest at the two-pronged onslaught, and merely gaped.

“Nothing you have just said makes the slightest sense, particularly in light of the condition in which you have returned home. It appears you are naked beneath your outer clothing. Have you misplaced your underwear? You have an enormous love bite on your neck, and another on your chest. You stink to high heaven of Merlin only knows what, but unless you are gay--” Lucius paused and leaned a bit closer, looking at him intently. “ _Are_ you gay?”

Draco shook his head in shocked silence.

“As I was about to say, no self-respecting heterosexual man allows himself to be doused in such effeminate scents _unless_ he is with a woman and engaging in rather… _creative_ sexual activities. Is that what you have been doing? _Do not lie again, Draco._ It will be only too apparent if you do.”

“Yes, Father. That is what I have been doing,” Draco repeated dully.

“Who is she?”

“Nobody you know, Father.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” Lucius’ tone was strident with triumph. “Some cheap, nasty little slut, then, out to get as much as she can from a naïve boy like you! Is that the way of it? Is _that_ the sort of woman with whom you’ve been consorting these past several weeks?”

Draco’s face had begun to flush with anger. He knew that at this juncture, he could opt to lie baldly and allow his parents to believe whatever rubbish they had concocted. But somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, not anymore. He had to tell the truth because it was a truth that had come to matter a great deal to him. And he wanted to be able to look at himself in the mirror too, and feel proud of what he saw.

“No,” he replied in clipped tones. “That is _not_ the way of it. She is neither cheap _nor_ a slut, as you so crudely put it. She is brilliant and… and beautiful… and very fine!”

“Who is she? Who are her people? How do you know her? Where is she from?” Narcissa’s questions came faster than he could respond.

“We met at uni. She’s from Hertfordshire.”

“Ah!” Narcissa cried smugly. “I knew it!”

“I have known her for eight years, actually. We were at Hogwarts together.”

Now, with all the other puzzle pieces in place, Lucius knew the answer to the final question even before his wife posed it. Out of curiosity, months before, he had looked into the question of how many students in the university prep class at Hogwarts had been accepted to Oxford. There had been only two. His son was one.

“Her name?” Narcissa asked, her voice deadly quiet.

Draco took a deep breath. “Hermione Granger.”

Narcissa sank back on the sofa, stunned. “Hermione Granger,” she repeated, and she thought a moment. “Harry Potter’s friend? The Mud-Muggleborn you always said you _hated?_ ” She thought a moment longer, and then her face lost whatever colour had still been there. “The girl Bellatrix tortured here? _That_ Hermione Granger?”

He nodded. “Mother, I she… she isn’t what I used to think at all. I was wrong.” He took a breath and forged ahead. “I was wrong about a lot of things. I hated watching Bellatrix torture her. I hated all of it. You _know_ I did. It made me _sick_. I still haven’t forgiven myself for so much of what I did back then. But she… she _has_. I was a right bastard to her for years because I thought all that pure-blood shite was true. I believed it all for so long. And I did what I was told, even when it stopped making sense to me.” Agitated, he raked a hand through his hair and continued, his voice low. “I tried not to let on. But… by seventh year, I wanted _out_ , and… well… Severus Snape helped me.”

The look of utter shock on his parents’ faces stopped him for a moment, but then he pressed on. He had to say it now, whilst he still had the nerve.

“Surely you must know by now that Snape did not really serve the Dark Lord. It was always Dumbledore. And Severus… he saved me twice when I needed him… not just when you asked him to, Mother. Even then, it was Dumbledore trying to save me as well. Yes, _Dumbledore_. He made Snape promise to kill him because somehow he knew what Voldemort had planned for me, and he knew… he knew I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. Didn’t _want_ me to. He was already dying and he knew that too. He sacrificed himself. For _me_.” He looked fiercely at both his parents. Narcissa gazed back at him, trance-like, her eyes huge with horror. Lucius stared at Draco with obvious skepticism etched in his face.

“I didn’t know any of that at the time. I just knew I was going mad with all of it, and Snape… Snape offered me a way to get myself out.” Draco forced himself to look his father in the eye. This next would be the hardest part of all. He took a steadying breath.

“I helped the Order with information. Through Snape. Whenever I could. That’s right.” There was defiance in his eyes now as he regarded his father, who was now utterly dumbstruck, and then Draco sighed heavily. “I don’t expect you’ll ever forgive me, but I had no choice.”

He plunged on. “And it was the same with Oxford. I _had_ to go, do you see? I was suffocating here! I had to get away, figure things out for myself. On my own. And Hermione has been a big part of that. So now you know all of it. Except for one thing, the most important thing of all.” He looked down at his hands folded in his lap, and swallowed hard. “I love her. She is kind and compassionate, and… and _decent_. She has been my friend, the best one I’ve ever had. I love her, and amazingly, she loves me too. If you force me to choose between her and you, I think you know what my decision will be. Please don’t push me to that.”

He lifted his chin resolutely, defiance in his eyes. It had been the longest speech he’d ever given his parents, and it amounted to no less than an ultimatum. He felt a bit shaky now that he’d finished, a bit incredulous that he’d found the courage to say all those things. He held his breath, waiting for his parents’ response.

Glancing at each other, they rose from the sofa and silently walked out of his bedroom, leaving Draco behind in some turmoil. He felt fairly sure they had retreated to the privacy of their bedroom to talk. He was not surprised. This was their way. He knew by the end of the day, he’d have their reaction one way or another.

Soaking in a hot tub, he pondered it a bit more. What of the revelation of his turn in seventh year? What were they thinking now? And what were they likely to say to him? And--would they try to force him to choose? Despite the very bad blood that had plagued his relationship with his father for years, it would not be easy to cut all ties with his family—with his mother. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But could they accept Hermione the way the Grangers had so clearly accepted him?

Later, as he stood directly under cascading streams of hot water in the shower, letting them inundate his head and shoulders, he tried very hard not to think at all, but just to feel. It was good just to blot it all out for a while and simply enjoy the sensation of fingers of hot water loosening the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back.

Clean, dried off, and dressed once again, he wandered downstairs, hoping for something ready-made to eat. As luck would have it, a late lunch had been laid on the sideboard in the dining room, and Draco suspected it had been his mother’s doing. He ate his soup and sandwich alone, his parents nowhere in sight. The house felt very big and very empty, in such stark contrast to the atmosphere in Hermione’s home. While he rather enjoyed the quiet, the growing sense that he was being deliberately shunned began to bother him, despite himself.

At five o’clock, a knock on his bedroom door disturbed his reading, which had been lacking in concentration in any case. He opened the door to find Tibby prepared to deliver a message. Unscrolled, it read, “Please come down to the blue drawing room. Your father.”

There was no ignoring that summons. He walked quickly down the curving staircase and into the oak-panelled drawing room so beautifully decorated with blue accents.

Lucius and Narcissa sat together on the red, floral-print sofa facing the fire, their backs to him as he entered the room. He seated himself adjacent to them on the smaller, pale-blue sofa. There was a palpable moment of silence before Narcissa spoke. When she did, her tone was cool and impassive.

“If we are to meet your young lady properly, hadn’t you better bring her round for tea tomorrow?”

 

  
  
The Blue Drawing Room


	15. Tea, Miss Granger?

 

 

“Dear Hermione,” read the message he’d hastily scrawled to her afterwards. “My parents know. It’s a long story. Tell you everything when I see you. Thing is, they want to meet you. They’ve asked me to bring you to tea tomorrow. I could come and fetch you. Will you? Please say yes. Draco.”

Paladin returned at eleven that night with her brief response.

“I’m a bit scared, to be honest. But yes. Hermione.”

 

*

 

Half past two the following afternoon found Draco standing next to that same rose trellis near the Grangers’ kitchen door. For some reason, his heart was in his throat, though he supposed that if anyone should feel that way, by rights, it was Hermione.

The door opened on the third knock. Hermione stood there, her cheeks flushed and her large, dark eyes unnaturally bright. She wore a pearl-grey, brushed-corduroy pinafore over a black turtleneck jersey and black tights. On her feet were a pair of simple, black heels.

“Hello,” she said, and reached for Draco’s hand, pulling him inside. They sat down on a pair of tall stools at the centre island. His gift from her parents, forgotten in the mad rush to leave the day before, lay on the countertop, waiting for him. Absently, he rested his hand on the book’s cover.

“Are your parents here? I feel a bit funny seeing them after… well, you know. What happened after I left yesterday? Did they…?”

“They’re out, actually. And they knew. I’m sure of it. I mean, gosh, the evidence was everywhere. But they were really cool about it. Sat me down and gave me The Talk …” Here, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, you know, the usual parental lecture about ‘not under their roof’ and carefully considering the consequences of my actions and all that. But my mum—she’s great. I really think she understands. I would wager anything she had a talk with my dad beforehand to calm him down. The thing is,” she wailed suddenly, “we’d have had everything tidied up if only they’d come home when they were supposed to!”

Draco grinned ruefully. “Well, just count yourself lucky you didn’t have to deal with MY parents. They were actually sitting in my room fucking _waiting_ for me when I got home!”

Hermione sucked in a breath. “ _Gods_ , Draco… What did they _say?_ ”

Draco laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, well, first off, what do you ‘spose they thought when I turned up smelling like a bloody chocolate garden, sticky as shite and with two honking great love bites? I didn’t even _see_ them sitting there in the dark until I’d stripped off--”

Hermione blanched, her hands flying up to her mouth.

“Not all the way, thank Merlin!” Draco chuckled. “But nearly. It was obvious to both of them that I’d arrived home without my underwear. Did you find my stuff, by the way?”

She nodded. “It was under the desk. Lucky I found it before my mother did! Anyway, what happened then?”

“Well,” he said, tracing a soft pattern on the back of her hand as it rested on the counter between them. “Father started questioning me about where I’d gone and whom I’d been with, and basically, I was backed into a corner practically from the off. He caught me in one big lie. Shite,” he muttered now, more to himself. “How the fuck could I have said I’d been with Goldstein of all people? I should have known that somehow, Father would’ve got wind of what I’d said to Nott’s mother!

“Ah fuck, whatever… Anyway,” he continued, oblivious to Hermione’s confusion, “once he knew I’d lied about who I’d been with, he got serious with the attack. Described the physical state I’d come home in—said I ‘stank to high heaven,’ pointed out the love bites…” Draco cringed, remembering that one. “And—get ready for it—asked me if I were _gay!_ Because of the body oils! Because, as he put it, no self-respecting straight bloke would use such stuff except whilst having kinky sex. And then, _then_ he went straight for the jugular. Made me admit that’s exactly what I _had_ been doing, and then he accused me of having been with a common slag.”

Hermione had gone very pale. She studied her hands, now clammy. “What did you say?”

“I… I couldn’t bear him saying or even thinking such awful things. So I told him it wasn’t true, that you—well, he didn’t know it was you yet—were beautiful and wonderful. And then my mother wanted to know about your background and that. I told them I’d met you at uni and where you were from. I think I knew at that point that I was going to spill. I didn’t care anymore what they thought. I still don’t. I told them… Oh…” He sighed. “I said a lot of things. Told them it was you.”

He gave a short laugh. “Totally gobsmacked, they were. It was almost funny. Then I had to tell them the rest—about Snape and what I did seventh year, the lot. Because it’s part of how you and I … well, it’s all connected. And you know what?” He tipped her face toward him with a light finger to her chin. “I’m glad I told them what I’d done. And… and I told them something else too. Told them I love you. It’s all out in the open now. They can bloody well take it or leave it. And me too. Can’t be arsed anymore.”

Hermione was staring at him, wide-eyed and suddenly quite flushed. “Did you really say all that?”

He nodded, and took her hand, playing absently with her fingers. “Yes, and I meant it all too.” He sighed. “So that’s it then. I think they finally get that I’m not giving them much choice with this. They either try to respect my feelings or I’m out of there.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze and picked up the book. “So, love-- ready to face a couple of dragons?”

She hopped off the stool and smiled tremulously. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Come on.”

He caught her around the waist and pulled her to him. “Wait. Before we go… you look really nice, did I tell you that?”

She shook her head, smiling.

He leaned down and whispered “Well, you do,” and his breath was warm on her skin. And then he kissed her. “For luck. We’ll need it!”

 

*

 

The low coffee table in the yellow drawing room was set with Narcissa’s fine, bone-china tea set, elegant white dishes patterned with bright, spring flowers. One cut-glass plate held tiny, triangular, crustless sandwiches, and another offered an artful arrangement of small, flaky pastries and cakes. The teapot steamed next to pale lilac-coloured linen napkins, cups, saucers, small plates and silverware, and a vase of cut flowers mirrored the beauty of the china.

Draco had Apparated them both into the entrance hall just inside the heavy, oaken front door. Now he tightened his arm around her waist, and checked that she was all right. She was awfully pale, he noticed. Nevertheless, she smiled faintly and gave a small nod, and together they walked toward the drawing room.

Just outside the double doors, Hermione pulled back, suddenly rigid.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t this one, I made sure,” Draco whispered. “It’s okay.” The horrifying memories associated with one of the other drawing rooms in the Manor were intruding painfully on both of them suddenly. He thanked the gods he’d thought to ask that their meeting be in this particular drawing room—smaller, certainly more cosy, and filled with a warm light streaming from the western and southern exposures onto the buttercup-yellow walls. Nothing at all like the room Hermione was remembering.

He pushed the doors open and they walked in. Lucius stood near one of the tall French windows, a pensive expression on his face, while Narcissa sat in an upholstered chair next to the fire. Narcissa rose and took two steps towards them.

Draco brought Hermione within arm’s length of Narcissa, while Lucius stepped into place beside her.

“Mother, Father… may I present Hermione Granger? Hermione, my… my parents.”

It was a singularly awkward moment. Where did one begin, when there was so much history that might be addressed and yet would not be— _could_ not be, just yet. An uncomfortable awareness of this descended on the four of them in varying degrees. They stood like statues, seemingly unable to move or speak, until Narcissa broke the silence by extending her hand rather formally.

“How do you do, Miss Granger?”

Carefully, hesitantly, Hermione touched her fingertips to Narcissa’s and then quickly drew her hand back. “How do you do, Mrs. Malfoy…” She cast a furtive glance at Lucius. “…Mr. Malfoy. I’m… I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

A lie convincingly told. Not that Draco blamed her. He kept his hand on her back, commencing an unobtrusive massage beneath the screen of her hair.

Lucius had schooled his features into a distant cordiality. “Good afternoon, Miss Granger. Welcome to our home,” he said with customary formality, and extended his hand to Hermione. She laid her fingertips in his palm a bit nervously, and he held them for just a moment before backing away to sit beside his wife.

Gratefully, Hermione sank down in one of the chairs opposite. Draco was close by, to her immediate left. His presence was a steadying influence—she could sense the strength he was trying to send her.

“Tea, Miss Granger?” Narcissa leaned forward to pour. Hermione nodded. “How do you take it? Cream or lemon?”

“Cream, please,” Hermione all but whispered, and swallowed hard. “No sugar, thank you,” she added at Narcissa’s questioning glance.

“Sandwich? Or perhaps a slice of lemon sponge?”

Hermione had absolutely no appetite for food at this moment, but she didn’t wish to offend in the first five minutes. She accepted the lemon sponge, and took a tiny bite.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” she managed. “Oh, I nearly forgot—I’ve brought you something…” Reaching into her purse, she drew out a tastefully wrapped box. “Truffles. My mother makes them every year. I hope you like them.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows rose slightly, and she gave Hermione a faint smile. She had not been expecting such a gesture. “Why, thank you, my dear. That was very kind.” Taking the box from Hermione, she unwrapped it and laid it, open, on the table. The truffles, dark and rich in their fancy paper wrappers, gleamed in the firelight. Draco leaned forward immediately and plucked one up, popping it into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said, chewing. “ D’licious!” Its exquisitely creamy ganache centre melted in his mouth, very pleasant memories immediately springing to mind.

Hermione looked at him gratefully, her cheeks pink, and took a sip of her tea.

Once everyone had had their tea and something to eat, Lucius cleared his throat. “I understand, Miss Granger, that you are a student at Oxford with our son.”

Hermione nodded politely. “Yes, that’s right,” and then couldn’t resist adding, “I really love it there.”

“Won’t you tell us more about it?” Narcissa asked. Here was a first, small inkling of the girl’s spirit. Despite herself, Narcissa was intrigued.

 _Surely Draco has told you himself? Or… perhaps not._ “Well, for starters, it’s a beautiful place. Very old. Mediaeval. Hertford is one of the oldest colleges. It was founded in 1282. I read that in a history of the university.”

Draco felt his lips twitch. That was Granger all over.

“Do tell,” Lucius remarked, and took a sip of tea. “Please… continue. I suspect we shall learn far more about it today than we have done in the last three months from Draco.”

Hermione glanced quickly from Draco to his parents and back again. At his slight nod, she took a breath. “Well,” she said again, “the architecture is lovely and rather eccentric in places. Our dining hall is located in a building that appears to wrap around itself in layers. You go up a winding staircase to reach the dining hall itself. And… and every student has a slot in the porter’s lodge for notes and letters from other students. It’s called the ‘pigeon post.’ Oh, and there’s a lovely bridge that spans two of the buildings. The Bridge of Sighs, it’s called. It’s supposed to look very like a bridge in Venice. Oxford… well, Oxford is just a beautiful place altogether. Magical, really, in its way.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Is it now? How so?”

Draco opened his mouth to speak. This was beginning to have the earmarks of one of his father’s interrogations, which always began mildly enough and then somehow degenerated into a verbal trap, and he would not allow Hermione to be subjected to that. However, she forestalled him, squeezing his hand quickly. She was all right.

“Well… there’s a sort of strangeness and… I don’t know… a sense I always get that something unusual is around a corner, waiting, something I can’t quite see but I feel it… the spirits of all the brilliant scholars who’ve left a bit of themselves behind, maybe… I love the thought of that.”

“Ah!” Narcissa sighed before she could stop herself. Hermione’s words had painted a vividly inviting picture, and she found herself thinking back on her own life. Studying in a place like that was something she could easily have imagined herself doing, had the climate been different for young witches and wizards twenty-five years earlier. Of course, no such option had existed for young pure-blood witches, only marriage. She realized with a start, looking at Hermione, that this girl was only a few years younger than she herself had been when Draco was born.

“Are you aware, Miss Granger, that there is, in fact, a wizarding community within Oxford?” Lucius inquired, setting down his cup and saucer.

“Yes, I did know that, Mr. Malfoy. But I wanted to be like any other student. I wanted to have the same challenges. I didn’t want to be different.”

“Ah, but you _are_ different, Miss Granger, and from what our son has told us over the years, I gather that indeed, you are quite exceptional. Do you not feel it a betrayal of your gifts to ignore them in this way?” Lucius sat back, his arms folded.

“Father,” Draco began. “I don’t think--”

“Draco, I believe the young lady is quite capable of answering for herself-- are you not, Miss Granger?”

“It’s all right, Draco,” Hermione told him quietly, putting a hand on his arm, and then to Lucius she said, “Yes, you’re right. I am quite capable of speaking for myself.” She sat up a bit straighter in her chair and her voice wavered only slightly. “And no, I have never felt it a betrayal to live as a Muggle whilst at uni.

“One point of this programme is to foster understanding, not only of Muggles, but between people within the wizarding community as well, by exposing young wizards and witches to the non-magical world. That knowledge can then be used to create real tolerance towards those of us who are not pure-bloods. If Draco and I used our magic, we could never fully participate in the life of the university, for one thing. We’d always be separate. And that would defeat one of the purposes of our being there.” She paused and gave a cheeky little grin. “Besides, it’s rather fun doing things the Muggle way sometimes.” She hoped her little attempt at humour hadn’t fallen flat as she watched Lucius’ face.

Lucius quirked an eyebrow. He had no faith whatsoever in the truth of that last statement, nor in the general principles that guided the Ministry in this project, and no real interest in testing them either. But he had to hand it to the girl. She had acquitted herself quite well indeed. He sat back with an enigmatic “I see.”

Meanwhile, Narcissa had been looking Hermione over, and she was admittedly impressed with the girl’s appearance as well. Lovely face, not too much makeup; nice, simple dress—suitably modest, yet stylish, well made, and attractive. Altogether she presented a picture of refinement and good taste. She could easily have been mistaken for a young lady of pure-blood background.

It was difficult, almost impossible, to believe that this poised, well-groomed, articulate young woman was the same terrified, dishevelled girl she had watched being Crucio’d again and again eighteen months before. She recalled, suddenly, a snippet of an impression she’d had at the time: that this Hermione Granger girl had backbone. She’d stood up to the pain Bellatrix had inflicted so relentlessly on her and had not been broken, though her screams had been truly terrible. Narcissa shut her eyes for a moment against the memory, as if in doing so, she could somehow exorcise it from her mind.

Astonishing that fate—that most ironic of forces—should have brought this particular girl back into all their lives. She looked at her son. He, in turn, was looking at the girl, and in his eyes, Narcissa could see a softening, a vulnerability, that she hadn’t seen there since his earliest childhood. A certain self-imposed veil had been lifted, and the warmth that she had always believed was still behind it shone through now. The look in his eyes, unguarded as he gazed at this girl, was rather breathtaking, in fact.

“More tea, Hermione?” she asked, and this time, her smile was genuine as she reached over and selected a truffle from the box.

 

 

  
The Yellow Drawing Room

  
Narcissa’s Spode china for breakfast and tea

 

  
Claire Granger’s holiday truffles

 

  
Hermione and Draco at Malfoy Manor for tea

 

*

 

“Granger, I’ve got to say—you amaze me,” Draco sighed later. “You’ve already got my mother in your pocket, and my father is well on his way to being wrapped round your little finger. It’s just a matter of time. I know him. It might not seem like it now, but did you _see_ the look on his face when you defended our choice to live as Muggles at uni!” He shook his head and laughed as, wrapped in warm cloaks, they strolled along the paths of the Lady Garden, brittle with ice and frost-bitten leaves and twigs.

There was a stark, white beauty in the desolation of bare branches and shrubs and the cold, marble statuary that gazed down on barren flower beds. They’d finished their tea, and Narcissa had suggested that perhaps Hermione might like to see a bit of the grounds before she went home. It had been a lovely day, and now, the last rays of the setting sun cast pale orange streaks across the lawns. They’d taken their leave of the Malfoys, Hermione extending her hand with her goodbyes somewhat more confidently than when she’d said hello an hour before.

She slipped her arm through his as they walked. “Oh, I don’t know. I doubt I convinced him of anything.”

“But you weren’t intimidated.”

“Are you _serious_ , Malfoy? I was scared to death!”

“Even so. You didn’t back down. Oddly enough, he probably respects you for that, I think.” Draco kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot, and it went skittering into the shrubbery. “It wasn’t something I was able to do when I was younger. Wish it had been.”

Hermione sighed and gave his arm a squeeze. “I’m sure you _couldn’t_ have done other than you did, Draco. You can’t compare one polite conversation between strangers to dealing with a parent, somebody who has such a lot of power and influence over you. _Especially_ when you were younger.”

They walked on for a few moments in silence, and then she continued.

“You don’t honestly believe that my parents behave towards me when we’re at home the way they did towards you. I mean, of _course_ they’ll be far more reserved and polite in company. They tease me all the time, argue with me, put me in my place if they think my head has got a bit big.” She gave a rueful laugh. “And trust me— there is a line I do not cross with my parents, my dad especially.”

“Hmm.” Draco thought about what she had said. He’d always been so wrapped up in his own skewed family dynamic that he’d never stopped to seriously consider what those of other families might be like. He felt just slightly better—lighter, somehow. As they walked on in the gathering twilight, he slipped his arm around her, pulling her closer.

 

  
The Lady Garden in snow, Malfoy Manor

 

*

 

That night—

 

Narcissa sat at the antique table in the mirrored dressing room, unpinning her long, blonde hair from its chignon. Soft and fine, it was still lovely in middle age, one of her best features and Lucius’ own favourite. She regarded her reflection pensively as her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Picking up her hairbrush, she began drawing it down in long, vigorous strokes. So absorbed in her own thoughts was she that she failed to hear Lucius as he entered.

His hands were on her shoulders, pressing in a light massage. She leaned her head back slightly, sighing.

“That feels lovely,” she said. He continued for a moment longer and then his fingers stilled on her skin.

“He seems…” Lucius began.

“Happy,” Narcissa finished, and reached up to cover one of his hands with her own. She gave it a light squeeze and stood.

They climbed into bed and blew out the candle, and Narcissa moved to lay her head on her husband’s chest. He wrapped an arm around her and for a minute, they lay in comfortable silence. Moonlight touched pockets of the room with a milky sheen.

Lucius’ voice broke into the silence suddenly. “He betrayed me, Narcissa.”

She sighed wearily. “We’ve been over and over this today. He didn’t. Oh, perhaps in a very narrow sense, he did. But it’s as he said, Lucius. He had no choice. He had to start doing what was right for _him_ , finally. You will never know how deeply all of it affected him. You were not here to see him when he came home after sixth year. And I think, to be honest, that even if you had been, it would not have made any difference. You were too afraid of the Dark Lord. I’ve told you-- Draco had lost weight, he wasn’t sleeping. He looked _gaunt_ , Lucius. He literally hibernated in his room that summer. I will never forget it. I was worried sick when I sent him back to school again. And you know well how distraught he became as time went on. Eventually, you saw that for yourself.”

A much heavier, more oppressive silence now lay between them.

“Lucius, you must forgive him. You _must_. He’s trying so hard to be a man he can be proud of. I believe this girl has a lot to do with that. If _she_ can forgive him, should not his own father be able to do the same?”

A pause.

“Besides… he was _right_. You know it. You’ve said yourself-- more than once in the last year-- that the Dark Lord was totally mad, and merely using all of us. We were _all_ expendable. Look at the way he so casually murdered Severus.”

“Severus betrayed him.”

“Ah, but Voldemort did not know that.” Narcissa raised herself up on one elbow and looked at her husband in the dim light of the bedroom. “You’re only upset because Draco turned and chose a path opposed to ours. Your ego’s been bruised. But it wasn’t done out of spite. It was out of _need_. Let it go, Lucius. Please. Let it go now. You _must_.”

His silence was disturbing, but she knew better than to push any further just now. There was something else that needed discussing in any case.

“What do you think of the Granger girl?”

“Does it really matter what I think, Narcissa? He’s as much as handed us a fait accompli.”

“Of course it matters. It matters to _him_ \-- a great deal, I think. He loves this girl. And I believe I can see why. _Lucius_.” Her voice was suddenly steely. “I have no intention of losing my son. We will open our home to Hermione Granger and we will make _certain_ our son knows she is welcome. We will be cordial to her at the very least. If you feel you are incapable of doing this, then I shall carry on without you, on my own. But you will not impede me in this. You walked away from our son once. _I_ shall not make that same mistake now.”

Lucius stared at the canopy overhead, his features composed, but in the half-light the moon cast, Narcissa could see the pain his eyes betrayed. Her heart broke for him, and she leaned over, brushing her lips over his. His arms slid around her in response, and he drew her close. The comfort they took in each other then bespoke the passion that had not flagged over the years, and was a balm for old heartaches that had not yet healed.

 

  
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s bedroom

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hugs and boxes of Claire’s truffles to my fantastic betas, Kazfeist and mister_otter, for quick, incisive reads and very valuable feedback!
> 
> Thanks to moonjameskitten, both for her beautiful banner, as always, and for her fantastic dramione manips as well. She took the headshots and pics of outfits I sent her, and worked her incredible magic to create what you see here with Hermione and Draco. Sathy, I can’t thank you enough!
> 
> Thanks to everyone at HP_Britglish for answers to questions that ranged from what to call the “fly” on men’s trousers to what to call women’s dress shoes other than “pumps” to whether one “gets the show on the road”… or says that same thing some other way.
> 
> Those of you who’ve already read “Baby Days” and “Baby Days 2” know that the house serving as Malfoy Manor is the magnificent Broughton Castle, in Banbury, Oxfordshire. It is home to the Fiennes family, of which Ralph Fiennes (Lord Voldemort) and his brother Joseph (Will Shakespeare, “Shakespeare in Love”) are members. Scenes from “Shakespeare in Love” were actually filmed at Broughton. The “Blue Drawing Room” is actually the Oak Room at Broughton. The “Yellow Drawing Room” is part of an estate called Les Prévanches, in Boisset-les-Prévanches, France. The Lady Garden is a garden of that same name at Broughton. The Malfoys’ bedroom is really “Queen Anne’s Room” at Broughton, so called because Queen Anne of Denmark slept there in 1604.
> 
> http://castles-galore.com/cgi-bin/picdisplay.cgi?rsh-eng.c00136&ca (Broughton Castle, Oxfordshire)
> 
> The truffles may be found at Nonnie Waller’s Traditional Southern, at http://www.nonniewallers.com/. Sinfully delicious, I’m sure!


	16. Show and Tell

 

 

Absentmindedly, Hermione tapped the feathered end of the quill against her bottom lip. She’d already crumpled three failed letters into tight, little balls and tossed them into the wastebasket. A cup filled with pencils and Biros stood on her desk, but she found she was so in the habit of using a quill that she much preferred its fluid style and the distinctive sound it made against parchment. Quill or pen, though, it didn’t matter in this case. Nothing was helping her to find the words she needed to tell one of her oldest, best friends about her special, new one.

Because he really had very gradually become just that in her life. She would never have imagined, sitting in the uni prep class at Hogwarts a year ago, that the tall, blond boy who had hitherto delighted in plaguing her would, inexplicably, choose to keep so very much to himself, virtually ignoring her—and then, surface again at Oxford a year later, only to reveal yet another side of himself never before shared with anyone, least of all her. He seemed to be a chameleon.

When she really stopped to reflect on it, what she’d learned about Draco Malfoy in the last three months was nothing short of astonishing in the small details. It wasn’t that he was now somebody else—it was that he was somebody _more_. And, in a way, less as well. Because there was a raw, painful piece of him that had begun to dissipate. He’d shown her bits of it, but it seemed to her that she could feel it receding. Sometimes it seemed not to be there at all anymore, but she knew that was an illusion. Yet it had grown a bit smaller, its hold on him just a little weaker.

And of course, now what they shared had gone beyond simple, platonic friendship to something deeper and more profound.

But how to get all of this across to the two people whose understanding she needed most? Sighing, she dipped the quill into the inkpot and once again began the first, halting words of her letter to Harry.

Draco had already tried much the same thing in a letter to Pansy. Truly, there had never been anything more between them than a longstanding friendship since earliest childhood-- and a lot of wishful thinking on her part and that of their respective mothers. Nevertheless, he felt somehow that she of all people needed to understand about his feelings for Hermione Granger. In the end, though, the letter had been a dismal failure. He couldn’t find the right words.

On Thursday evening, the third of January, he scribbled a quick, disgusted note to Hermione.

“Sorry, the letter thing just wasn’t on. Everything I wrote sounded treacly or just plain daft. D.”

His answer came back early the next morning. Paladin’s insistent tapping on the windowpane woke him at seven. It was just becoming light outside, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily. Then he heard a furious flapping just outside the window, and a rhythmic tapping on the glass. Jumping out of bed, he drew the drapes aside and opened the casement. A tired and cold Paladin hopped inside and perched on the back of the desk chair, shaking off his feathers in a huff and then preening himself. Draco smiled, and reached inside the top drawer of his desk to withdraw a handful of his owl’s favourite treats. Mollified, Paladin folded his wings and snatched each treat with delicate precision from his master’s palm, gulping them down with relish. Then, wearily, he closed his eyes.

Meanwhile, Draco had removed the message from his leg, and now he broke open the seal and unrolled the parchment scroll.

“Dear Draco, I know we agreed it was time to tell our friends about us. But I’m having just as hard a time putting it into a letter as you are. Anyway, look-- I’ve had an idea. What about showing them instead of just telling them? We could arrange to get together for drinks somewhere — you know, a New Year’s celebration, at the Leaky Cauldron, maybe? Or that new place, the Pestle and Mortar? — and invite our friends. (Harry, Ginny, Ron, Neville and Luna—that’s about it for me.) Then they’ll see us together. And the best part is, we’ll be in public, so Ron will have to behave himself. What do you think? Hermione xxx P.S. Am I being a horrible coward for wanting to do it this way?”

Draco laughed softly and shook his head. So like Granger to worry about being weak in some way. Sitting down at the desk, he drew out one of the new quills she’d given him as a Solstice present, chewed thoughtfully on its clean tip for a moment, and then dipped it into the inkwell.

“Shame on you, Granger! What happened to all that famous Gryffindor bravery? (I’m just having you on a bit. Of _course_ you’re not being a coward, you silly girl!) Your idea makes perfect sense. We really only have tomorrow night, though. You’re leaving for Oxford on Sunday, and I’ll be going back on Monday. I’ll find out if Pansy’s free. Zabini already knows, of course, but maybe I’ll invite him and maybe Nott and Goyle as well, just to round things out. Can’t very well throw Parkinson into a den of lions all by herself, can I? Doubt I’ll be much help -- think I might have lost a bit of my Slytherin edge, what with spending so much time consorting with the enemy (ha ha). The Pestle and Mortar sounds good. The Leaky’s getting a bit old. Anyway, let me know if we’re on for tomorrow, and what time. Draco xxx (Wish you were here and in my bed _right now_ , so I could give you those kisses in person.)”

Late that afternoon, after Paladin had had a long, restorative sleep, Draco sent him out to Hermione with his reply. The tawny eagle owl returned very late that evening with a brief but encouraging reply.

“We’re on for tomorrow night! Nine o’clock at the P and M. As for my Gryffindor bravery, it seems to have deserted me. A bit of Slytherin subterfuge would come in useful though! I don’t think I’ll _ever_ be quite ready for this… Hermione xxx (Wish I were there too.)”

 

*

 

Saturday afternoon  
5 January

 

A door slammed, startling Narcissa just as she was preparing to slip a long-stemmed, tangerine-coloured rose into a cut-glass vase to join an assortment of hothouse flowers she’d cultivated in her conservatory/greenhouse.

“Draco? Is that you, darling?” she called, separating the stems so that they fanned out in the vase, their blooms a bright and fragrant reminder of summer in the dead of winter.

The doors to the blue drawing room were flung open suddenly, and Draco stood there, broom in hand. He wore faded jeans and boots, with a warm, navy, hooded fleece layered over a turtleneck jumper and a thermal shirt. Leather gloves protected his hands and a knit cap pulled well down over his ears had kept his head warm.

“Hello, Mother. Been out flying,” he said, leaning his broom against the doorframe and sauntering in to flop down on the red, patterned sofa. Merlin, he _had_ missed that in the last several months! “I’m _starving_. Anything to eat?”

Narcissa smiled. Some things never changed no matter how much time passed. “I’ll send for tea. It’s nearly time anyway. Missy!”

The diminutive, sweet-faced house-elf appeared instantly and offered a small curtsey. “Yes, Mistress?”

“Tea, Missy. A full cream tea today. And be sure to include the salmon mousse on toast that Master Draco likes so much, and elderberry jam for the scones.” Narcissa nodded to indicate she’d finished, and Missy dropped another quick curtsey and vanished.

Moving to sit beside her son, Narcissa folded her hands in her lap and regarded him thoughtfully. He would be leaving for Oxford so soon, now, and there were so many things she wanted to ask, so many things she wanted to tell him.

“Good flying today?” she began instead.

He nodded, pulling off his cap and gloves, dropping them on the sofa beside him, and then stripping off his jumper, along with one of the thermal shirts. He flopped back into the sofa cushions, and ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it even more. It fell back over his eyes in a pale, feathery fringe. “Brilliant. Couldn’t really stay up for very long, though. Bloody freezing out there after a while. But I had to get into the air, just for a bit anyway.”

The tea things arrived just then, and Narcissa had them set on the low table in front of the fire. She poured a cup for Draco, adding milk and a bit of honey, as he liked it, and handed it to him along with a plate of assorted, neatly trimmed, crustless sandwiches. Amongst them were his favourites: salmon mousse with tomatoes and watercress on toast points.

“Thanks, Mum,” he sighed, and took a bite, chewing contentedly and chasing it down with a gulp of hot, sweet, milky tea.

Narcissa looked up sharply from her tea. He hadn’t called her “Mum” since he was a little boy, and rarely even then.

“Your Miss Granger seems a very well bred girl, for a --” she started once again and then stopped short.

Draco stopped chewing and looked at his mother. He’d expected this conversation two days before, and when it hadn’t come, he’d wondered if perhaps Narcissa had decided to spare him. _Good save, Mother_. Points for that. No doubt his father would have gone right ahead with the rest of the phrase. Draco decided to give his mother the benefit of the doubt, and resumed eating.

“Thanks, I’m glad you like her.” He darted a quick, assessing glance at her face then. “You _do_ like her…?” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

“Yes,” Narcissa replied. “I must confess that I do. She… interests me.” Taking a sip of her tea, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs in an elegantly fluid movement.

Draco grinned in spite of himself. “She has that effect on people.”

“More than that, though, I can see why she’d interest _you_ ,” his mother continued, pausing briefly to sip her tea. “She’s obviously very intelligent, articulate, and well-mannered. I suspect that she challenges you-- that she’s feisty, doesn’t back down. You need that. Beneath the poised exterior, I have the sense that she is a very strong young woman. Am I correct?”

He decided to speak frankly. “She’d have to be strong to endure what was done to her in this very house. Not to mention all the years before that, when she had to prove herself again and again, because of people _like me_.” He said that last with a self-deprecating sneer. The words were like ashes in his mouth.

Narcissa sighed. It was difficult to argue with a point that was essentially irrefutable. If he had been beastly to this girl in past years, it was because he’d been taught and encouraged to do so by his family. And if Lucius had actively inculcated the more virulent strains of prejudice and encouraged behaviour that was of necessity cruel because of the nature of the beliefs that informed it, Narcissa was at the very least a passive participant in the lessons. Very much a product of her upbringing as well, she’d stood by and allowed them, even supported the broader notions of pure-blood superiority, though she never really agreed with the more extreme solutions to the problem of magical folk with blood that was less than pure.

“Draco,” she said quietly. “All that is over and done with now. You said she has forgiven you.”

“Yes. I believe she has, though I haven’t asked her in so many words regarding the way I treated her at school. That is still something I must do.”

“Yes, you should.” _And so must we at some point_. “However, if _she_ can accept you, surely you can accept and forgive yourself, finally.” Narcissa looked pointedly at Draco then. He was staring down at his plate, his second sandwich untouched.

“Draco, we want you to know,” she pressed on, suddenly sensing that he might bolt at any minute, “that Miss Granger is welcome here. If she is important to you, then we will make an effort to get to know her better.”

Draco stared unabashedly at his mother for a moment, and then asked with some skepticism, “ ‘We’ as in both you _and_ Father?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said firmly. “Your father too. Give him a chance, Draco. He has a lot to sort out. Perhaps someday he’ll tell you about it. For now, suffice it to say that he is rather bitter about many things, and yet, he’s not one to easily let go of feelings and beliefs that are long held. Despite all that, I do think your Miss Granger surprised him. She was not what he had expected — nor what I had expected either, frankly. I believe that in time, she will grow on him.” She paused and the corners of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile. “And… I will help in whatever way I am able.”

This was surely more than Draco had anticipated, and he felt a curious constricting sensation in his chest. “Thank you, Mother,” he said softly. “That means a lot to me.” He put his plate down on the table and stood, feeling a sudden need for the solitude of his room. “Will you excuse me, please?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He moved to leave the room, and then stopped suddenly by her chair, dropping a swift kiss on the top of her head. She watched him go, sitting very still even after the doors had clicked shut behind him. She had said what she needed to say. It was a first step.

 

*

 

At fifteen before nine, Draco began a quick search for at least one parent. He found his mother first, in the master suite. She was relaxing on the chaise by the fireside, absorbed in a book. At the sound of the door opening, she looked up.

He popped his head round the door and flashed a grin at her. “Going out, Mother. Meeting some friends.”

“I see. Come in, darling.” Narcissa laid the book face down in her lap, gesturing, and smiled brightly. “Where will you be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Diagon Alley, actually. We’re meeting up at the Pestle and Mortar.”

“Hmm… well… have a care how much you drink, please.” Her tone was mildly admonitory. “Who else will be there— aside from Hermione, I assume?”

Draco nodded and made an offhand gesture as he perched at the end of the chaise. “Oh, Blaise, Pansy, maybe Greg and Theo…” His voice began to trail off. Clearing his throat, he continued. “…Potter and a Weasley or two… Longbottom… Lovegood…”

Now Narcissa did quirk an eyebrow as she bit her lip. “I _see.” Well, that should be interesting_. “Have a good time, dear.”

Draco reached over to give her hand a quick squeeze and then he was gone.

His mother watched pensively as the door closed behind him. On the other hand, perhaps a bit of drink would take the edge off what had every chance of being an entirely awkward, possibly even explosive situation.

She sighed and picked up her book again, shaking her head. There would be some very strange bedfellows at that table and no mistake.

 

*

 

The Pestle and Mortar was dimly lit by an array of floating candles and the light from fires in two hearths, one in the bar and another in the main dining room. Draco Apparated to a spot in a hallway separating the two areas. Looking around, he slipped his cloak and gloves off, folding them over his arm. Merlin, he was tired suddenly! Must have been the flying earlier in the day. He leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes drift shut.

Just as the warmth of the room began to lull him into a light doze, he felt a tap on his arm. He opened his eyes and looked down to find Hermione, her eyes shining and a huge grin lighting her face.

Without waiting, she threw her arms around him, wrapping him in a fierce hug.

“Oh! I’m so glad to see you!” she breathed against the wool of his jumper.

“It’s only been three days, Granger,” he chuckled. “Just couldn’t live without me, eh?” He wound his arms around her, resting his cheek against the top of her head, and breathed in the familiar, piquant apricot scent. “I’m really glad to see you too,” he sighed.

They stood that way for a full minute, and then Hermione pulled away and looked around a bit furtively. “Is anybody else here yet? Maybe we oughtn’t stand here like this.”

“Why ever not? I thought that was the whole idea, them seeing us!” Draco pulled her back to him, bringing his mouth close to hers. “I’m ready to show them all _exactly_ how I feel.” Her lips were soft and tasted of watermelon lip gloss as he caught her mouth in a light kiss, and then a second, this one more exploratory as he tasted her slowly and deliberately.

“Mmmpphh! Malfoy!” Hermione struggled against his kisses, but he could tell she was smiling too. “ _Wait!_ ” She pushed herself out of his grasp, leaning back against the opposite wall, and took a deep breath. “No snogging now!” she said sternly. Draco grinned and bent to retrieve one of his gloves, which had fallen to the floor a moment before. He leaned over, his back to the front entrance.

“Oi!” A familiar voice assailed them both. “Hermione!”

Ronald Weasley strode towards Hermione, apparently unaware of Draco’s presence as he approached. “It’s great to see you!” He reached to envelop her in a bear hug, a big smile on his face, when Draco straightened and turned back around.

Ron’s face went through a series of expressions, the speed and variety of which would have been comical had any of them felt like laughing at that moment.

“Hermione?” The exclamation had become a question, confused and suspicious. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“He’s with me,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, stepping back from her friend’s embrace. “Breathe, Ronald.” Inside, her stomach had turned to jelly, and she tightened her jaw and forced a smile as she moved back to stand beside Draco, taking his hand for good measure.

Ron looked from one to the other, his eyes travelling from their faces down to their clasped hands and back again, and those same expressions repeated themselves, but this time far more slowly. His mouth fell open slightly and then set itself in a grim line, while his brows shot up through the mop of ginger hair and then dipped, becoming furrowed.

“What d’you mean, _he’s with you?_ ” he asked, his voice unnaturally calm.

Draco could feel Hermione’s hand tightening around his. She began to squeeze his fingers rather hard. He cleared his throat. “It’s just what she said, mate. I’m with her. She’s with me. We’re _together_.” His voice was controlled, pleasant even.

“Right, I need a beer!” Ron muttered, running a hand distractedly through his hair so that it stood out from his head, and he turned towards the bar and took two steps. _Mate?_ Then he pivoted back to face them. “Let me get this straight. _Together_ together?”

They nodded.

“ _Bloody hell_ …”

That was it. Turning on his heel, he walked to the bar and ordered a pint, taking a long pull from it as soon as it arrived.

In the meantime, Hermione and Draco shared a quick, wary glance. One down, five to go.

They decided to sit down, and chose the nearest empty table, a large round one in a secluded corner. They didn’t have to wait long.

Blaise was next to arrive along with Theo and Greg, and two of them slid into the seats immediately to Draco’s left.

“Cheers, mate,” Blaise said with a cocky grin. This was old news to him. He’d had five days to process it, after all. It didn’t even seem quite as bizarre as it had done upon first hearing. He nodded his head in her direction, giving her a quick once-over at the same time, and then flashed her a brilliant smile. “Miss Granger. Pleasure.” Draco was right. She did look good. Very good in fact. Lucky bastard.

Draco frowned. _Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you, Zabini?_

“Malfoy!” Theo waved from the bar, where he was placing his drink order. He joined them a moment later, drink in hand, and slid into a chair opposite Hermione and Draco.

“Draco,” Greg said affably, nodding, and then caught Hermione’s eye. “Gr-- Hermione.” It was the first time they’d seen each other since that awful night eighteen months earlier, when he and Draco had nearly died in that fire, and Potter, Weasley and Granger had plucked them up out of the roiling chaos and flown them to safety on their brooms.

Hermione simply smiled at both of them, not betraying the slightest unease at any possible recollections, and then darted a nervous glance in Ron’s direction.

Over at the bar, Ron had noticed the three new arrivals and his eyes bugged out a bit more.

Blaise stood again. “Can I get you lot anything?” He turned in Ron’s direction and chortled. “Weasley, I see you’re already set.”

Ron glowered and turned his attention back to his glass, tipping up its amber-coloured remains in one gulp and slamming the glass down on the countertop.

“Weasel-- Weasley’s in a bit of a strop, it would appear,” Draco observed mildly. “Reckon we’ll just let him be for now. Pint for me. Oh, and some crisps, and maybe a bowl of nuts,” he added. “Granger?”

She nodded. Far from making a scene, Ron wasn’t even talking to her. It looked like being a long night. A pint would do. For starters.

Five minutes later, Neville Longbottom walked in with Luna Lovegood on his arm. They’d just begun going out, and there was still a certain awkward newness to the way they were, physically, around each other. Luna spotted their familiar faces in the corner and she smiled and waved. Apparently, she wasn’t terribly put off about the fact that there were four former Slytherins at the table and they outnumbered the Gryffindors.

“Oh, Hermione!” she said excitedly, as Hermione rose from her seat to give Luna a hug. “Happy New Year! It’s wonderful to see you!” She sat down on Hermione’s right and patted the seat next to her. “Come on, Neville. Why, hello, Draco. You too, Blaise. Theodore. Gregory.”

Draco smiled, and nodded. “Hello, Luna.” Loony Lovegood and Longbottom—both of them a bit daft in their own way. A match made in heaven, surely.

Blaise tipped his glass in Luna’s direction and grinned, while Greg raised a hand in greeting.

“Hullo, Hermione… everyone,” Neville said somewhat warily as he eyed Draco, Blaise, and Greg, and slowly sat down. They returned the greeting and then returned to their conversations. Somebody put a glass of ale in front of him and he picked it up automatically and took a healthy swig.

Greg, Theo, and Blaise cast quick looks at each other and then at Draco, but he shook his head slightly. Apparently, they were the only ones who knew so far.

Three still to arrive. It was now twenty past nine. Suddenly the door burst open and Pansy appeared. She spotted Draco immediately and rushed towards the table, oblivious at first to the company surrounding him.

“Draco!” she cried. “ _There_ you are! I’m _so_ sorry I’m late!” She got within a foot of the table and suddenly stopped short. “Oh! Blaise! What are _you_ doing here? Theo? And… Greg? I didn’t know you’d be here!”

And then it seemed as if very abruptly, she became aware of four other people she knew, three of them former Gryffindors, one a Ravenclaw.

‘Have a seat, Pans,” Draco grinned. He’d have laughed out loud at the situation that was unfolding—viewed one way, the whole bloody thing was absurdly funny, really-- had not so much been riding on it for him and for Hermione. “What do you fancy? Oi! Weasley! Quit arsing about over there and bring Parkinson a pint!”

Ron’s head snapped up from the glass he’d been morosely contemplating and swiveled around. He stared at Draco. What presumption, ordering him about! He’d a good mind to walk out right now.

Instead, he found himself ordering another drink and bringing it over to the table where Pansy Parkinson sat, her dark hair still cut in the neat, little fringed bob that fell to her jaw line. She looked up at him as he put the pint glass down in front of her, and he noticed how very blue her eyes were, in striking contrast to her dark hair.

“Thanks,” she said uncertainly, as Ron backed away and found a chair, pulling it over to the table next to her. It really was the only open space.

“I wonder where Harry and Ginny are?” Hermione murmured, picking at a bowl of cashews and peanuts in the middle of the table. “Um… Ron… have you any idea?”

Ron frowned. “No.” He was still put out by the earlier revelation and not terribly inclined to carry on much polite conversation with her.

A small knot clenching in her stomach, Hermione looked away. She glanced around the pub, her eyes lingering on the front door, and then she looked at Draco. Beside her, he was calm and implacable. Feeling her gaze, he turned his head ever so slightly, slanted a smiling glance and a wink her way, and then slid his hand over the table’s surface until it reached hers. Covering it with his own, he slowly and quite deliberately threaded his fingers firmly through hers. Then he gave her hand a squeeze.

The meaning behind the gesture was unmistakable. Pansy and Neville goggled.

While not surprised anymore, Blaise, Greg and Theo were still a bit taken aback at the visible proof of what Draco had told them on New Year’s Eve. On the other hand, Luna seemed completely unfazed; instead, there was a secretive and rather satisfied smile on her face. Ron simply refused to look.

It was to this tableau that Harry Potter and his girlfriend, Ginny Weasley, arrived thirty seconds later, expecting to find only her brother and their good friend, Hermione Granger.

Instead they found a table full of people, a history of enmity between some of them, and dead centre, the pair with the most bitter history of all: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. And they were _holding hands_.

Harry stopped short, Ginny bumping into him from behind.

Hermione attempted to pull her hand away, but Draco held on tightly. Swallowing, she smiled and said, her voice shaking only slightly, “Hello, Harry… Ginny! You made it! Happy New Year!”

“Hermione, what…? I thought… What’s going on?”

Looking directly at Harry and Ginny, Draco gave Hermione’s hand yet another gentle squeeze. Bolstered, Hermione replied, “Well, see, we thought… Draco and I… that it would be fun to get together with our closest friends to toast the New Year.” She picked up her glass and raised it slightly in their direction.

Masterful bit of dissembling, that. She had more than a bit of Slytherin in her, whether she realised it or not. Hastily, Draco bit back a grin.

“Draco and you…” Harry repeated slowly. “Hermione… what the hell are you on about?”

Behind him, Ginny was staring completely open-mouthed at the pair of them. Then she snapped her mouth shut, leaned in and whispered in Harry’s ear. He leaned his head back slightly to listen, and then faced front again, narrowing his eyes.

“You… you’re…” he began. “ _Are_ you? Is it true, then?”

Draco nipped in ahead of Hermione this time. Looking around at all of their friends, several of whose expressions wavered somewhere between shock and dismay, he nodded somberly. “Yes. It’s true.” He took a breath and pressed on. “I am in love with Hermione. And she loves me, too-- don’t you, Granger?” He turned to her fondly, and she nodded, colouring. “It’s that simple,” he continued. “We… we thought you all should know, and this seemed a good way to go about it. Appropriate too. New beginnings for the new year and all that. It’s really about time.”

Pansy had sat back in her seat, eyes wide. She was virtually dumbfounded, a rarity for her. Now she shook her head and grinned in spite of herself. “Draco Malfoy, you sly thing! Was _she_ the reason you bunked off early from your parents’ party?”

Draco merely smiled. The smirks on Zabini, Nott, and Goyle were equally hard to miss.

“And you three _knew_ , didn’t you!” she cried.

Sheepishly, they nodded.

“Hmm!” she huffed, folding her arms.

“Merlin…” Harry murmured, sinking into a chair next to Ginny. “How?”

Somebody pushed a pint of dark, rich ale at him, and gratefully, he took a swallow.

Hermione took up the tale then. “We were both in that uni prep class Hogwarts gave last year, though we didn’t say two words to each other the whole time. I knew I intended to try for Oxford. I had no idea that he did as well. And then… well… we ran into each other the first week of term. I was shocked to see him. Turned out we had a lecture together and a tutorial as well, and… you know… we worked really well together and got on and spent a lot of time talking, and just sort of… became friends.” She paused and smiled at Draco. “Really good friends.”

“And it was all downhill after that,” Draco teased, and got a kick under the table for it.

“Seriously, though… that’s how it started. And now… well…here we are.” She sighed as she sat back, giving everyone a hopeful smile before taking a sip of her drink.

 _Bloody. Fucking. Hell._ Of all people in the universe -- _Malfoy!_ Harry stared at his old friend, disbelief still protesting in his brain.

He took a large gulp of his drink.

 

*

 

An hour and a half later—

 

“… and then… and _then_ she said in that voice of hers—you remember—she said, ‘It is absolutely uncanny, Mr. Potter, the way your dreams and those of Mr. Weasley are so very similar night after night! The two of you have clearly got a connection from a past life that is manifesting itself in your dreams!’ And then she looked at me through those thick specs of hers—I mean, she was a sodding _inch_ from my face, I swear! — and said, ‘We must investigate the connection together! I shall expect the two of you here tonight after supper with your dream journals. In the meantime, I must _prepare!_ ’ ” Harry sat back, his face flushed with mirth, and wiped his eyes. Laughter bubbled up all around him. Everybody remembered their eccentric Divination professor, Madame Trelawney, all too well. Harry’s imitation had been absolutely spot on.

“What happened, Potter? Did you and Weasley show?” Draco leaned back, flinging an arm around Hermione, who was comfortably snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder. He had quite a nice little buzz going, and he was enjoying it.

“Oh, we went all right,” Ron chimed in. His third pint glass was down by half. “Silly cow made us sit there half the night with our hands on her crystal ball and our eyes shut, while she communed with whatever spirits she fancied she’d got hold of. Told us we’d been twin sisters separated at birth and our souls were reaching out and trying to make contact at night in our dreams!” Ron snorted and took a swallow of his beer. “Never heard such absolute rubbish. Totally round the twist, that one.”

Pansy giggled and moved slightly closer to him. “I bet your real dreams must have been a lot more interesting.”

Ron turned to look at Pansy, surprised and then flattered at the attention. He grinned. “Too right they were.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Still are.”

Pansy laughed and drained her glass. “I’d like to hear about those sometime.”

Over Hermione’s head, Draco exchanged glances with Blaise and both grinned. Interesting development. Who would have thought it, indeed.

Ginny extricated herself from Harry’s loose-limbed embrace and stood suddenly. “Right, time for a visit to the ladies’. Anyone care to join me?”

It was like a well-timed cue. Before anyone knew it, all four girls were moving in the direction of the door with a drawing of a forest nymph on it.

“What the fuck is it about the ladies’ that women seem compelled to go as a pack?” Blaise mused. “ _We_ don’t do that!”

Neville nodded. “Like a magnet, it is. They can’t seem to help themselves!”

“It’s very simple,” Draco replied, with lazy self-assurance. “They do it so they can talk about us blokes.” He put his glass down with a resounding clink. “Can’t very well do it in front of us, can they. Need someplace private. I’ll wager that right now, they’re in that little room giggling and trying to worm details out of Hermione, or _maybe_ …” He looked with an evil smile at Ron. “Just maybe Pansy’s their target now, eh?”

Ron coloured, but he was grinning. “And if she was?”

Draco raised his glass to Ron. “I’d say more power to you, mate.”

The table erupted in laughter as Ron raised his glass in response and tossed back its contents.

Meanwhile, in the ladies’, the four girls were busy brushing their hair and freshening their makeup.

“Okay, Hermione, _spill!_ ” Ginny said sternly. “I mean, for Merlin’s sake—you and _Malfoy?_ Details, woman!”

“Right! What’s been going _on?_ ” Luna chimed in, pressing closer. Her big, blue eyes were wide with curiosity as she adjusted the dragonfly clip in her hair. “Not that I’m surprised, really. I remember how he used to look at you.”

“I’d rather like to know that myself!” Pansy remarked, giving her hair a quick brushing. “I mean, I’ve known Draco just about all my life, practically since we were in nappies, and I had _no idea_ he was seeing you.”

“It’s really just as I told you before…” she began.

“That isn’t what we’re asking, and well you know it!” Ginny exclaimed, exasperated.

“ _Oh_ ,” Hermione said, flushing. “Well… I… he’s so not what I ever thought about him all those years at school. There’s so much more to him! I suppose he realised there’s more to me than he knew as well. We talk a lot, you know? I know he trusts me, because he’s told me a lot of very private things. And I’ve told him things too. It’s just so… _comfortable_ is the best word for it, really, but-- not like an old shoe, I don’t mean it that way…It’s just that being with him, I can really be myself. I mean…” She blushed again, dropping her gaze. “I… I love him… but the thing is, I really _like_ him as well. And I know he feels the same.”

She glanced at the others with a wistful smile. “You know the sad bit? We actually have a lot in common, and I think we could’ve been real friends years ago, if… well… if all that pure-blood rubbish and house rivalries hadn’t got in the way. You’re right, Luna -- he’s rather liked me for a long time, he told me so. But he couldn’t let himself feel that. It went too much against everything he knew.”

She turned to the mirror and smoothed a curl into place, and then turned back. “He’s… I don’t know… I can’t say he’s perfect. Neither am I. It isn’t that. But we’re a really good fit. It just feels right. And…and I love him. I really do. He touches me. He’s always with me… _here_.” She laid her hand on her heart. “Does that make sense?”

The other three nodded solemnly. A quiet moment passed while Hermione’s words were digested. Then Ginny grinned, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. She was determined to get the answer to that other question, the one they all wanted to know about.

“So. _What’s he like then?_ ” she said, _sotto voce_.

Hermione laughed, her face pink. She waited for a moment, capitalising on the drama of the pause, and then leaned closer to her friends, her own voice dropping to a whisper. “Bloody. _Amazing_.”

There. That should do it. Grinning, she reached for the doorknob.

 

*

 

It was very late. The pub had nearly emptied out. Time, finally, to go.

Fairly well pissed by now, everyone shrugged on their outerwear and headed for the Apparition point outside in a rather uncoordinated shamble. Harry lagged behind to talk to Hermione, cornering her by the door.

“Look,” he said. “I jus’ want to say… I mean… well… _Shit_ , Hermione. I just want to say it’s your life. And if… if, you know, he makes you happy — if he _really_ does—then I’m happy for you. I mean it.”

“Me too.”

Ron stood quietly behind Harry, looking sheepish.

“I was a bit of a wanker earlier. Sorry. It was just such a…”

“Shock?” Hermione smiled ruefully.

“Yeah. That’s it. A shock. I mean… fuck’s sake, Hermione… we’re talking about…”

“Malfoy. Yes, I know.” Draco was waiting for her just outside the door. But this was important.

“But… yeah, you know… well, it’s what Harry said, and all. Just want you to be happy.”

Ron stared down at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.

Tears were starting, and Hermione threw her arms around both her old friends, hugging them fiercely.

“He makes me very happy indeed,” she whispered, pulling them closer. “Thank you for this.”

When Draco poked his head around the door, he saw the three of them huddled together, arms around each other, and he smiled to himself. It was what he’d hoped for. He wondered if he’d get that same understanding from Pansy.

He didn’t have long to wait for an answer. Blaise, Theo, Greg, and Pansy came up behind him, and she tapped him on the shoulder. Rather unceremoniously, Theo and Blaise pulled Greg off to the side.

“Knut for your thoughts,” Pansy said mildly.

“Think I’d pay a Galleon for yours right about now,” Draco replied, chuckling.

“Well, if I’m going to be totally honest… I can’t say I didn’t feel just a tiny bit disappointed at first. That, and incredibly surprised. I’d _never_ have imagined… well… I suppose I’d still held out some small hope that maybe…oh, it’s silly, really. Deep down, I knew it was never going happen between us. And honestly, I think a big part of me didn’t want it to, anyway. The truth is, I love you, Draco-- but not in that way. I tried to make it be that, but it just wasn’t, and never could be. I know that. I want to love somebody the way I know Hermione loves you.”

He looked sharply at her then. “Did she tell you that?”

She smiled and squeezed his hand for a moment. “Yes, you prat, she did. But she needn’t have done. I could see it for myself. It was written all over her face.”

Her words ignited a warmth in his chest, and now he felt it spreading through his veins right down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He found he had no words at that moment. So Pansy reached up and kissed his cheek.

“Be happy, my friend,” she said. “You deserve it. Happy New Year!” With that, she turned, walked to the Apparition point, and vanished.

He looked at the spot where she had been, sighed with satisfaction, and then turned to his friends, who had returned to stand alongside him.

Blaise got straight to the point. “How did your old man take it?”

Draco snorted. “You mean, once he knew it was Granger? Not as badly as I expected, actually. Fairly sure my mother had something to do with that. But I told them this is how it is. Take it or leave it. If he gives me any grief, that’s it. I’ve got my own money now. I can leave.”

The other three glanced quickly at each other, eyebrows raised.

“We had _tea_ , for fuck’s sake!” Draco continued. “I felt like shit, subjecting Granger to that. But there was no way around it. She was brilliant though. A real trouper.” He grinned, remembering. “And now my mother’s said that Hermione is welcome at the house. _Welcome_.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Bloody hell,” Blaise murmured.

“Indeed.” Draco nodded. “You’ve got it in one.”

“Well, good luck, mate,” Theo sighed. “Though I really don’t think you’re gonna need too much of it. Sounds to me like you’ve got this one well in hand. For now, anyway.” He laughed, and clapped Draco on the back. “Cheers!” In the next moment, he had vanished with a _pop_.

“Yeah, best luck, Malfoy.” Greg stuck his hand out. “I like her. She’s all right.” Even as he turned to go with Blaise, an uncomfortable sense of business left undone tugged at him. He stopped.

“Hang on a tick, Zabini.” He waited for the door to open once again.

Hermione appeared within a minute, flanked by both Harry and Ron, with Ginny on Harry’s other side. They all leaned in and kissed her, and then Ginny turned to her.

“I’m so happy for you!” she said very quietly, and gave Hermione a hug. “It’s wonderful! He seems really, really different now.”

“Thanks!” Hermione hugged her friend back, the tears threatening to well up once again.

In the meantime, Harry had walked over to Draco.

“Just… take care of her,” he said quietly. “I love her a lot. Don’t want to see her get hurt. I know… I know that you love her too. Be good to her, yeah?” He stuck out his hand and Draco grasped it.

“I will. And Potter…”

Harry stopped. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. For my life. I never had a chance to tell you that.”

Harry inclined his head and the beginnings of a lopsided grin lifted a corner of his mouth. For a long moment, the two young men regarded each other. Then, they dropped hands and Harry took a step back. Looping his arm through Ginny’s, he Apparated them away.

Only Ron remained. He took a step in Draco’s direction, but stopped when Goyle shuffled over to them.

“Look,” he said, clearly uneasy. “Just wanted to say… thanks. For… you know… You didn’t have to do it, and I’m not sure I’d have done the same. But… well… fact is, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“Thanks, Goyle,” Hermione said gently. “Ron?”

Ron nodded, accepting the hand that Goyle offered, first to Hermione and then to him.

After he left, Ron walked over to Draco.

“Look…” he said, taking a deep breath, his demeanor suddenly quite somber. “Hermione means a lot to me. Don’t… don’t bugger it up, all right? ” His voice trailed off. He knew what he wanted to say, but somehow words had deserted him suddenly.

“I won’t,” Draco said quietly.

“Right, then. Well… g’night,” Ron said, nodding. A moment later, he, too, had gone.

The narrow lane in which the pub stood was deserted now, and it had begun to snow lightly. They stood under the eaves, watching tiny snowflakes wheel and swirl crazily, illuminated by the light from candles enclosed in the glass boxes of the street lamps. It was preternaturally quiet. Not a soul was in sight, and the new snow muffled all sound.

Draco opened his arms to Hermione and wrapped her in the outer folds of his cloak. The cold, snowy air was sobering the two of them up rapidly. She turned and leaned back against his chest; his arms slipped around her waist, hugging her to him, and she covered them with her own, her eyes drifting shut for a minute.

“What did you think? Not too bad, yeah?” she asked, threading her fingers through his.

“Not bad at all,” he replied, burying his face in her hair and dropping a kiss on the top of her head before resting his chin there. “Actually came off rather well, I thought.”

“Yes, it did, rather, didn’t it! I’m amazed!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Me too,” Draco admitted. “Could’ve been a right balls-up. But everybody was very cool about it.” He gave a short laugh. “Well, except for Weasley.” Tightening his arms around Hermione, he bent to kiss the side of her neck.

A small thrill shot through her at the touch of his cool lips on the sensitive skin just below her left ear.

“Yes…” she began, and realised she’d lost her train of thought. “What… what were you saying?”

Draco laughed softly. “Weasley,” he whispered in her ear, and touched the very tip of his tongue to her ear lobe.

“Right, yes. Ron.” Her breath slid out of her in a sigh. “What about him?”

He said nothing, instead continuing his gentle assault on her neck, moving lower and lower until, turning her to face him, he’d reached her mouth. For just the briefest moment he paused, his breath and hers rising in steamy clouds between them, and then he caught her mouth in a searching, soulful kiss that promised to go on forever.

Suddenly, though, he broke away and swiftly unfastened his cloak, holding it open.

“Open yours too,” he told her. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Trembling slightly, she obeyed, and then stepped into the shelter he offered. Muttering a quick “ _Subiungo!_ ” to secure his own cloak around the two of them, and an additional Warming Charm to create a bubble of comfortable air around them, he drew her close, his hands buried in the luxuriant hair at the back of her neck.

“Mmm…” he sighed contentedly, kissing her again, and now he ran his hands lightly down the front of Hermione’s jersey. There were annoying little buttons that needed undoing, and this he proceeded to do as his mouth and tongue kept hers busy.

“Clever girl,” he said softly, once he’d parted the two halves of her jersey and found her bra. “A front clasp. Well done.” In a trice, he had the bra unhooked so that it, too, fell away to either side.

His hands felt like heaven on her bare skin as they enveloped her breasts, and then began a slow, deliberate, circular stroking, his fingertips gliding over her nipples and teasing them into firm, tingling buds. Already there was a ticklish, rippling heat growing between her legs, and she pressed her thighs together to relieve it.

There would be no relief, however, not yet, only a heightening of the sensations, as Draco dipped his head down inside the tent-like cloak and took one of her nipples between his teeth, biting it gently and then soothing the sensitive tissue with a curl of his tongue.

“Oh…” she hissed. “Do that again!”

“A pleasure, my lady,” he murmured, and repeated the act, lavishing his attentions on each breast in turn.

Finally, she couldn’t bear it any longer, and brought his head back up so that she could take his soft mouth with hers. As they kissed, he carefully manoeuvred them around so that now, she was leaning against the wall of the building. The kisses were long, exquisitely deep exchanges, alternately hungry and tender.

She could feel him pressed, hard and heated with desire, against her abdomen, and she found herself reaching for the button and then the zip on his jeans. He smiled against her mouth as he realised what she intended, and felt himself grow harder still, in anticipation.

Her hands were warm as she freed him from the confines of his clothing, pushing his jeans and boxers aside just enough that she could explore where she chose.

Supple fingers stroked his cock whilst the other hand kneaded the firm, smooth cheeks of his bum and then returned to his balls, cupping them and then caressing them as she worked his cock harder.

He threw his head back and moaned softly. _Just there, yes!... that feels so good… ah, don’t stop, love… don’t ever stop_...

It didn’t take long. Without warning, a sudden tightening deep inside his testicles ignited in a fiery rush along the length of his penis, exploding in a shower of semen in her hand and on their clothes.

Hermione smiled up at him in the dim light and popped a finger into her mouth.

“Gods, that was phenomenal!” he whispered. “Your turn now, love.”

A quick _Scourgify_ and both were clean and dry, and before she knew it, he had her jeans open, one hand disappearing down into her delicious warmth.

“Oh… Hermione…” he breathed.

He took her mouth again in a series of soft, sweet kisses as his fingers discovered the soft, downy place between her legs, its folds slippery with want. He began stroking her, sliding his fingers in and then withdrawing them to stroke the tiny, pulsing bud, coating it with her wetness. His other hand rested on her chest, his fingertips moving over her breasts in steady, gentle, tickling circles.

Hermione’s eyes were closed and her head lolled back, soft moans silenced by his mouth on hers.

In those moments, everything around her stopped. There was nothing but the slick, feathery sensation of his insistent fingers on the most intimate parts of herself. She _needed_ him to touch her there, he mustn’t stop… What had begun as a tiny thrumming deep inside her was now on the verge of igniting and consuming her.

One final flick of her engorged clit and she was clenching around his fingers, her spasms squeezing them in rippling waves. Throwing her arms around his neck, she held on tightly as her heart slowed from its frantic banging in her chest and its roaring in her ears. She wanted nothing more than to feel the whole of him pressed against her.

When, finally, her breathing had calmed, she stepped away and began buttoning her clothing. They still stood within the warm confines of his cloak.

“Let me,” Draco said softly, and gently pushed her hands away so that he could finish buttoning her jersey. She stood still, arms at her sides, and as he pulled the zip of her jeans up, she threaded her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beating steadily.

“I love you so much,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” came his voice from above her head. This time, it wasn’t tentative. It was clear and strong.

She looked up in surprise. “I thought… I didn’t know you’d heard me.”

He gave her a cocky grin. “Oh, I heard. I always listen when women make declarations of love to me.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck. “Plan to hold you to that, y’know.”

She giggled. “It goes both ways, y’know.”

“Counting on it, Granger.”

 

*

 

The long vacation had finally come to an end. Trunks were packed and goodbyes were said. On Sunday, the Grangers drove Hermione back to Oxford, and she spent that day unpacking and settling back into her little room in Staircase 2. As she arranged her collection of framed pictures on the chest of drawers and on the desk, she added a pair of them in a simple frame, taken the night Draco had come to dinner. At the time, she’d been embarrassed and had protested, but Richard had insisted. An amateur photographer, he’d just bought himself a new camera and was dying to try it out.

He’d taken shots of Claire, Hermione, Claire with Hermione, Claire with both Hermione and Draco, and then several of Hermione and Draco alone. A few had turned out especially well, and these he had made copies of and given to her before she left.

There were two in particular that she especially loved. Richard had snapped a few spontaneous shots in addition to the posed ones, one of them taken whilst Draco was leaning over Hermione at the dining table as they looked at the old photo album. She’d just turned her head to look up at him, the two of them laughing at the old photo on the page in front of them. A moment of pure, shared pleasure caught on film.

The other was a nice shot of the two of them on the sitting room sofa together, pleasantly relaxed after a couple of glasses of wine. Draco had thrown his arm around Hermione’s shoulder and she’d nestled in close, their hands entwined in her lap.

But there was a third, one she’d taken herself with a magical camera on New Year’s Eve. They’d been sitting on the sofa watching Monty Python and sharing the leftover apple tart topped up with double cream. Playfully he’d dabbed a bit of the cream on her nose, and in retaliation, she’d painted a moustache and goatee on him. Just then, a particularly funny bit of the film had come on and he’d thrown his head back in helpless laughter. She’d managed to capture her handiwork and his subsequent laughter forever on film. She would cover it over with the sofa shot, and just enjoy the moving picture when she was alone.

A pretty double frame made from fired clay and dressed in a cobalt-blue glaze had caught her eye in the local stationer’s, and she’d bought it, setting the three pictures inside. Now, standing back and viewing this newest addition to her collection, she smiled with satisfaction.

Draco would be returning to Oxford the following day. There was something she must do before that. The rest of the unpacking would keep. Leaving her open trunk and belongings scattered about the room, she slipped out.

 

*

 

The 2.13 from Bath seemed shorter, somehow, than its hour and thirty-four minutes. The countryside, frosted white from the recent snowfall, whizzed past the grimy train windows, but Draco didn’t notice any of it. He was deep in thought about the eventful weeks he’d just passed at home.

It had been a slightly uneasy parting. Much remained unsaid between him and his parents, his father particularly, despite—or perhaps because of—everything that had transpired in the past five weeks. He’d sensed that his mother wanted to say more as she handed him a wrapped cake, one of his favourites, and then hesitated for a moment before putting her arms around him.

“Have a good journey back, darling. I’ll miss you,” she said in his ear. “Please write.”

“Will you write back this time?” he’d asked. During the vacation, he’d gone into Castle Combe with her and shown her once again how it was all done, how easy it really was. He’d even bought her a large supply of postal stamps and a box of envelopes.

Lucius knew about this now, but he wisely refrained from commenting or objecting. It was important to Narcissa to be in touch with their son. One day, he’d even looked at the box of stationery on her writing desk in the drawing room, idly turning over the stamps and envelopes and studying the paper on which Draco had written his address at Oxford. Curious, the way Muggles sent their post. He wondered about the speed and efficiency of such an operation. Perhaps he’d test it sometime.

“Yes, dear, I will. I promise. And do please convey my — _our_ regards to your young lady.” Narcissa had kissed him and then stood back, her eyes suspiciously bright.

He’d nodded, smiling, and turned to his father then. Lucius stood there, ramrod straight, his expression impassive as it so often was around his son.

“Well…” Draco said uncertainly, “goodbye, Father.” Tentatively, he put his hand out.

Lucius moved forward to accept his son’s outstretched hand, holding it for just a moment beyond the handshake.

“I…” he began, and then words simply failed him. A rather stiff “Goodbye, Draco, safe journey” were all he could manage.

A moment later, Draco had Disapparated. Gone for another two months’ time.

 

He played the scene back in his head as the train sped along, as well as other images that returned as well: the dinner at Hermione’s house and her parents’ warmth and hospitality; that photo of Hermione that Claire had slipped into their Yule present to him (he had that safely tucked up in the book and would look at it frequently, he knew); Notting Hill and Glastonbury (he reached up to touch the tiny earring briefly, and smiled); the very best New Year’s Eve he’d ever had, followed by the very worst New Year’s Day; the evening of the Big Disclosure at the Pestle and Mortar. How odd, he thought, to be on actually decent speaking terms with both Potter and Weasley and the other Gryffindors, too, after so many years of open hostility.

The train pulled into the station at Oxford five minutes early, and he dragged his canvas trunk and rucksack off the train and onto the platform, scouting about for a taxi. Before long, he was on his way back to Catte Street.

Passing through the porter’s lodge, he stopped to pick up his keys and check to see if there were anything in the post for him. As it happened, there was. A medium-sized parcel waited for him there, and he took it, tremendously curious about its contents and who might have sent it.

Back in his familiar room in Staircase 5, he dumped the trunk and rucksack on the floor and eagerly sat down on his bed to open the cardboard mailing box. It was one of the sort that mail-order companies sending books and CDs used, though it was a little bit larger, and it was somewhat tricky to get open at first. It had come from Amazon and he was puzzled; he knew he hadn’t ordered anything before leaving for home, and certainly had no way of doing that once he was there.

He managed finally with the help of a pair of scissors, pulling the top off triumphantly. There, in two sealed plastic bags, were a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. He ripped open the plastic and shook them both out of the bags to have a better look and his eyes went wide.

The shirt was black, and had a picture of a knight wearing a squared-off, brass helmet with a rectangular eyehole. Where his arms should have been, there were only gaping, bloody holes, and alongside this gruesome image were the words “It’s Just a Flesh Wound.”

The pyjama bottoms were black as well, and had drawings all over of a soldier’s face with a long, curled, pencil-thin moustache and a strangely egg-shaped helmet on his head, along with the words “I Fart In Your General Direction.”

 _Granger_.

He sat back, laughter exploding out of him, and as he did so, a card fell from the folds of the pyjama trousers. Still laughing, he opened the envelope. The message consisted of a single line:

“I expect to see you in these tonight.”

Jumping up, he hurried out of his room in search of a certain very audacious ex-Gryffindor whose command he had every intention of obeying.

 

 

  
Draco’s “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” pyjamas

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My thanks and gratitude always go first to my wonderful betas, kazfeist and mister_otter. It’s such a comfort knowing they’re there and so supportive, and have judgment I can always trust.
> 
> Continuing thanks to moonjameskitten for her very beautiful banner and manips!
> 
> Continuing thanks, as well, to everyone at HP_Britglish for their wonderfully helpful answers to some fairly obscure questions.
> 
> If you’re interested in ordering Monty Python pyjama bottoms or t-shirts for yourself, you can find information at:
> 
> http://www.amazon.com/Monty-Python-Black-Knight-T-Shirt/dp/B0009UFMU4/ref=pd_sbs_a_4_img/104-7602391-4391100?ie=UTF8&qid=1191366114&sr=1-1
> 
>  
> 
>  _Subiungo_ —Latin for “to attach, to join.” Never having studied Latin, I am relying on an online Latin-English dictionary, which is not exactly a foolproof method. If I’ve mangled the conjugation or context and somebody can help me correct it, I’d be most grateful. Thanks!
> 
> Disclaimer: All this belongs to JKR with the exception of Richard and Claire, Oxford, the plot, the pyjamas, and _Subiungo!_ I make no money from this story.


	17. Follow

 

Saturday  
16 February

 

By the time bars of thin, milky light had begun to seep through the window blinds, the snow had already been falling steadily for six hours. It came down in heavy, blinding curtains, obscuring the trees, shrubs, buildings and paved walkways that formed the landscape outside Hermione’s window. There was virtually no sign of life—nothing but the white snow sky and the swirling masses of flakes that fell silently, blanketing the world.

At just past eight, Hermione stirred. The room was chilly as it so often was, and she burrowed further down into the bedclothes to try to find a warm spot.

An arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her back firmly against its owner’s chest.

“Hey, where’re you going?” a sleepy voice asked petulantly.

Hermione smiled but said nothing, merely wriggling comfortably into the warm, delicious maleness of the body wedged against hers.

They slept a bit longer, wrapped in the snug cocoon of Hermione’s duvet, as the snowstorm continued, unabated, rendering the world a silent faerie realm of white. Nine o’clock came and went. The room was much brighter now, but it was the brightness of snow light, not of sunshine. The snow still fell in fat, round flakes.

“Granger.” The voice was muffled by layers of bedclothes. “Granger, you awake?”

“I am now.”

“Good. I’m famished. Got anything to eat?”

“Always thinking of your appetite, Malfoy!”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Well, all right, maybe I am. But there’s nothing like good food and a good f--”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, love. What I _meant_ to say was that good food and the amorous attentions of a warm, beautiful, and incredibly sexy woman are two of life’s greatest pleasures for me.”

“Ah. I see. In that order?”

“Not necessarily. ‘Course…” He paused. “I am speaking in the abstract at the moment, as there’s no food in sight.”

Another pause.

“And… the beautiful, sexy woman?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Right, yeah… Know of anybody?”

“Oh-h! _You!_ ” She grabbed a pillow and rounded on Draco’s hapless blond head. In a flash, he had vanished beneath the covers, pulling her down under by the ankles and proceeding to tickle her mercilessly.

Her shrieks, his shouts, and their combined laughter were muffled to some extent by the duvet. Next door, however, in room six, Gemma Martin looked up from her desk where she was reading, her coffee mug halfway to her lips. She grinned and shook her head.

They emerged, flushed and dishevelled and a bit breathless, still laughing.

“Not fair!” she protested, shaking her head and running a hand through her hair to push it out of her eyes. “Since when is biting allowed?”

“Depends on where one’s being bitten, I’d say,” Draco replied lazily, raking a hand through his own hair and smiling with annoying nonchalance. “In this case, the rather delectable target presented itself to me on a platter, so to speak.”

“Hmm!” Hermione winced slightly as she gingerly felt for the tender spot on her bum. “I bet you left teeth marks!”

“Oh, I do hope so,” he laughed, fending off another smack of the pillow to his head. “Now, now, control yourself, Granger. I prefer my brains inside my head rather than leaking out my ears. Got an essay to write later. I believe…” he continued, stretching lazily as he leaned back against the pillows, bending one leg at the knee and extending the other one straight out, completely at ease with his nakedness. “…the subject was food.”

“Cheeky,” she muttered. “Well, I’ve all sorts of stuff, actually. Mum keeps sending care parcels full of goodies. Thinks I’m starving here, apparently. Let’s see…” She slipped off the bed and crouched down, pulling a long, shallow plastic box out from under the bed.

“Right. We’ve got… all sorts of biscuits, instant cocoa mix, tea, coffee, instant soups, a jar of honey, some peanut butter… some packets of sugar… jam… granola bars, Weetabix, cornflakes… tuna fish, crabmeat salad, and pasta salad in tins…”

“And pheasant under glass, too, I suppose?” Draco deadpanned. “What about milk, then?”

“In the fridge down the hall. If somebody hasn’t nicked it, that is.”

Draco’s head suddenly appeared alongside hers as he leaned over the side of the bed. “On second thought, Granger…come back to bed. We can eat… _food_ … anytime.” He winked, his grin rakish.

Marvelous idea. She hopped back into bed, pulling the duvet over the two of them like a cloak, and snuggled close to him.

He was warm and smelled so _good_. She marveled at the fact that Draco Malfoy smelled so incredibly nice just about all the time, and it wasn’t his soap or the hint of fresh, light cologne he wore. It was simply a clean, natural, very masculine scent embedded in his very pores. She’d read somewhere about pheromones in the natural world—how potent they were for mammals and insects in the mating season, for instance—and knew that this attraction was precisely that, and every bit as primal. Old-fashioned, very powerful chemistry, and utterly irresistible.

All she wanted just then was to bury her face in his skin and simply breathe him in. She hovered above his chest near to his arm, which rested at his side. Happily, she sniffed him there, pressing her nose into his warmth. She was dangerously close to his very ticklish armpit.

“Hey! Your nose is bloody freezing!” Draco exclaimed with a shout of laughter, his eyes flying open in surprise.

“I know! I’m trying to warm it up!” Hermione pushed her nose in harder, making him laugh again, and now he twined his arms around her, pulling her flush onto him, tangling their legs together. It was quite cosy under the duvet, and when he kissed her finally-- a slow, meltingly sensuous joining-- food was totally forgotten.

 

*

 

Draco’s head popped through the neck opening of his t-shirt and he pushed his arms through the sleeves, and then began pulling on the pyjama trousers Hermione had bought him. They were a nice, soft, toasty flannel and had the dual benefits of keeping him warm whilst making him laugh.

“Weetabix,” he said suddenly. “And tea. What’ve you got at the moment?”

Hermione turned. She’d just slipped into an oversized tee and a pair of soft, baggy sweats, and was taken aback by the apparent randomness of the comment.

“Oh!” She thought for a minute. “Well, chamomile, and some Earl Grey. A bit of Yorkshire Gold, too, I think. Care to try something new for a change?” She grinned and raised a questioning eyebrow, though she was fairly certain of what he’d say. She’d learned that Draco was very much a creature of habit.

He stood and padded over to her, his toes curling in the soft pile of the rug, and slipped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “You know what I like. I’ll get the kettle going whilst you get the milk. Don’t really fancy walking down the hall in this get-up, much as it would no doubt give your friends a thrill.”

He flashed her a cocky grin, swatted her bum, and went to fill the electric kettle at the small sink.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Incorrigible. That’s what he was. And utterly charming. And he knew it.

After a quick breakfast, they were lingering over their tea and watching the snow fall when there was a knock on the outer door.

“Hermione!” It was Alison from room two downstairs. “Come outside! Snowball fight! Holywell against NB!”

“ _Oh_ …” Hermione looked at Draco, torn suddenly. She’d been planning to settle down to some serious work this morning, on an essay their shared tutor, Dr. Madox, had assigned them. And she’d been hoping to persuade Draco to do the same. It was for Intro to Literary Studies, required for both of them in their first year, and they’d been set an assignment that was due in five days’ time. They’d do separate essays, but each was counting on the benefit of the other’s perspective on the text. “Oh, but…” she began again. “I wanted… I was going to…”

“Merlin, Granger, there’s _loads_ of time yet. Nothing to worry about. Can’t let Holywell down, now can we? Where’s your quad spirit? Draco chided with mock sternness, the corners of his mouth quirking in an impish grin as he tossed back the remainder of his tea and set the mug on the desk. He began stripping off his pyjamas and pulling on boxers, jeans and a warm jumper. “Where are my socks, d’you know, love?” He stopped suddenly and straightened, twisting round to look at Hermione, who was standing stock still. “Quit faffing about, woman, and get some clothes on! We’re needed!”

There was no getting out of it, she could see, and from the looks of things outside the window, nobody else was trying either. A fair number of Holywell residents had already begun to stream out of the five staircase entrances, some sensibly bundled up against the cold and snow, which was still coming down, and others ridiculously and quite unconcernedly underdressed. Everybody seemed giddy with excitement though.

There was a party atmosphere in the air, a certain exhilaration akin to that which small children feel when school is cancelled unexpectedly because of just this sort of heavy snowfall. It was as if all bets were off and they were suddenly free to just go out and _play_. It hadn’t taken long for the idea of an inter-quad snowball war to take shape and spread, Holywell against New Quad. There was talk that after that, the victors would send a challenge to Old Quad. How precisely the winner would be determined was rather sketchy at the moment, but nobody seemed terribly concerned about that anyway—more than likely, whichever side had more people still standing who could still feel their fingers and toes.

Draco buttoned his jacket, pulled a knitted cap down over his ears, threw his woollen muffler round his neck and wrapped it securely, and grabbed his gloves.

“Ready, Granger?” He glanced out the window every five seconds, it seemed, practically champing at the bit to get outside. Things were hotting up out there already, with the two sides consolidating. It looked like good packing snow too, judging by the round, hard missiles that were already being stockpiled on both sides of the quad.

Still just slightly disgruntled but also feeling a guilty thrill of excitement, Hermione yanked a woollen cloche hat over her curls, pulled her mittens on, and grinned.

“Let’s go!”

 

*

 

The battle cry had managed to raise about twenty denizens of each quad, a fair number on a snowy Saturday morning when many people were very happy just to be enjoying a lazy lie-in.

Hermione had spotted a couple of the girls from her staircase and had gone over to talk to them for a minute, leaving Draco to begin packing snowballs on his own.

“Oi! Malfoy!”

Draco turned. Approaching him and waving was Tony Spencer, who lived across the landing from him.

“Wasn’t sure we’d be able to pry you out, not with your track record!” Tony gave a knowing smirk. “Hardly seen you lately, mate.”

“Oh, I’ve been around,” Draco said carelessly. “Just been busy. Got more important things to do than arsing about with you lot.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy!” Tony was cheerful. “What about this, then? Fucking _brilliant_. We can take that lot, _easy_.”

Draco nodded. “Reckon so.” Then he grinned evilly. “Care to make a small wager on how long it takes us to put them away?”

Tony’s smile was lazy and self-assured. “Oh, I think I can manage a _small_ wager. Say… a fiver?”

“You’re on,” Draco agreed. “But… seeing as I’m eminently fair-minded, what say we up the ante to ten and extend our little wager to… ah, _Applegate!_ ”

Draco hailed another of his floor mates as Mark Applegate drew closer. He had just opened his mouth to say hello. Now he shut it again, eyeing Draco with a touch of suspicion born of a certain familiarity with his friend’s creative and quick mind.

“Yeah?” he asked carefully.

“Got a proposition for you, mate. We’ve got a small wager going, Spencer and I— ten pounds on the best guess at how long it’ll take before we wipe the floor with NB. I say half an hour. Spencer here reckons twenty minutes tops. Care to add something to the pot?”

Mark stroked his chin with a gloved finger. “Might do, might do…” he mused. “Right, okay! I’m in for ten quid. I’ll say… twenty-five. Minutes, I mean.”

“Applegate goes out on a limb,” Draco snorted. “Right, thirty pounds in the pot.” He glanced around, surveying the immediate area for other potential takers.

“Look at them,” Susan Croft laughed. She, Hermione, and Maggie Stewart, all of Staircase 2, had been chatting some small distance away, their cheeks rosy with the cold. Maggie and Susan were neighbours one floor above Hermione. In addition, Suze was currently going out with Tony and Mags with Mark, the two relationships having come about in the course of a single, rather raucous party between the staircases one night in the previous term-- so they were well aware of the boys’ frequent and seemingly indiscriminate propensity for laying odds. “They just have to bet on everything! Next thing you know, they’ll be wagering on how many tenths of an inch of snow have collected on a particular dustbin!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I know! I wouldn’t put it past any of them! Of course,” she added with a wink, “whoever collects might just take one of us out on the winnings…”

The girls laughed and bent to roll some snowballs.

The battle began in earnest five minutes later, when snowy missiles began to fly furiously in every direction. The snow was dry and perfect, and a well-aimed snowball packed quite a punch.

Draco had turned to gather together more snow when he took one, hard, in the back. Turning around, he spotted a gleeful high-five between two residents of NB Quad. Quickly, he pushed two large handfuls of snow together, packed it tightly, and in one fluid movement, let fly with it, hitting his attacker squarely in the chest. He answered the look of surprise with a complacent grin and got ready to fire off another.

Hermione was busy fending off attacks of her own. She’d just been belted in the shoulder rather painfully—that would be a bruise later, she knew—and was desperate to avenge herself. Rolling the biggest snowball she could throw, she lobbed it off in the direction of her assailant, a tall girl with red hair stuffed into a black woollen cap, and managed to knock the cap clean off and deposit a fair bit of snow in her hair at the same time.

“Hermione! Over here!”

Hermione turned from her labours to see Draco waving furiously at her. She grinned and waved back, and then ran in a rather ungainly fashion, given the amount of snow on the ground, to join him. He gathered her in a quick hug, their breath coming in steaming clouds in the crystalline cold, their noses and cheeks apple-red.

“I saw that, you know,” he laughed. “Bugger me, Granger! I’m glad you’re on our side! Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those! You’ve got quite an arm, you have!”

Hermione smiled complacently. “Practice, that’s all. Lots of snowball fights in Stratford Way, growing up!”

An image of a much younger Hermione playing happily with a gaggle of neighbourhood kids flashed into Draco’s mind, and he smiled at the thought, just as she was imagining, suddenly, the rather more lonely childhood he must have had, growing up in the isolated splendour of Malfoy Manor. She squeezed him tightly.

“Hey, what’s all this then?” he whispered into her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded and held onto him a moment longer, then stepped back. “Come on, Malfoy,” she said resolutely. “We’ve got a war to win!”

Precisely twenty-one minutes later, it was all over. The first annual inter-quad snowball war had lasted a total of thirty-three minutes, so the pot—a grand total of sixty pounds-- went to Draco as the one whose guess had come closest. However, in the end, he decided-- with a tiny bit of prodding from Hermione-- to share it with all participants in the bet and their respective girlfriends/boyfriends/dates, in a party that night. The winnings would pay for rounds of drinks and food, as far as they would stretch. It seemed a fitting way to end what had been a very good day so far.

In the meantime, a tired but exhilarated pair trudged through the snow back to Staircase 2, room 5. It was lunchtime, but both of them were so cold, wet and tired that the prospect of prolonging the time in such a state was very unappealing, hungry as they were. And neither of them was inclined to go back out again for food once they’d got warm and dry. Hermione had proposed a quick meal scrounged together from the veritable supermarket-in-a-box under her bed, along with a bit of cheese she was fairly certain she still had in the hall fridge.

Both of Gemma’s doors were open, so as she rummaged in her pocket for her keys, Hermione poked her head in.

“You coming tonight, then?” she called.

Gemma had recently begun to see Danny Kirman, who lived one floor up. He’d put money down on a rather optimistic guess of fifteen minutes. She looked up from unlacing a soggy boot and nodded cheerfully. “Yup!”

“Later!” Hermione answered, and unlocked the door to her room.

“Listen, Malfoy,” she said firmly as the two of them stepped inside and began divesting themselves of their sodden clothing and boots. “No joke now—we absolutely MUST get some work done this afternoon!”

Draco sighed melodramatically as he peeled off a very wet sock and began to massage his cold, red foot. “Ahhh… ouch… Right, work. Yes. Absolutely,” he repeated. “Promise.” The other sock came off next as Hermione crouched down to take over the massage.

“Right, then,” she replied, deftly working the flats of her hands over his chilled skin. “No distractions! And I mean _none_.” She smiled then. “Better?” At his blissful nod, she grinned. “My turn!”

She sat herself down and stuck out her feet, inviting him to pull off her boots and socks and return the favour. Leaning back, she reveled in the lovely sensations his warm fingers provided, as feeling gradually returned to her numbed feet.

 

*

 

An impromptu lunch of tinned tuna fish, biscuits, cheese, and steaming mugs of instant minestrone soup had filled them both up nicely. Following a post-lunch lie-down, they felt refreshed and ready to get down to cases with their essays. And anyway, Draco had exhausted his repertoire of delaying tactics. He’d finally given up trying to tempt Hermione away from her decision to actually get some work done. She was determined on his behalf as well as her own, and he knew from experience that there was no arguing with her once she’d made up her mind. By six, they’d made sufficient progress to call it a day. It was decided, after a hurried consultation amongst several of the principals, that everyone would meet at eight at the King’s Arms, a few minutes’ walk from Hertford in Holywell Street.

The couples from Staircases 2 and 5 would be joined by Chris Pullman and his girlfriend Fiona Holroyd from Staircase 3, and Steve Holdstock and his date Gillian Marks, both from Staircase 1.

The walk over proved to be something of a challenge, as the snow ploughs had pushed huge piles of snow to the kerbs, creating frozen mountain ranges along each stretch of pavement. These had to be traversed at the corners by climbing very carefully up a slippery path dug out of the mountain and then making one’s way back down the slope and into the road. Every intersection was blocked in this manner. It was slow going and treacherous in spots, but at least most of the pavement itself had been cleared.

By just before eight, nearly everyone had arrived. Standing just inside the doorway of the pub, stamping their boot-shod feet free of snow, eight of them formed a tight knot that blocked the way for people coming and going.

“Better move in,” Danny shouted above the noise, grabbing Gemma’s elbow and propelling her further inside towards the bar.

 

  
The King’s Arms, 49 Holywell Street, Oxford

  
photo by vasily@thphysoxacuk at oxford@night

 

Mark and Maggie were right behind them, followed by Draco and Hermione, with Tony and Susan bringing up the rear. They were only missing Steve and Chris and their dates. It turned out that the four errant members of the party were already waiting for them at the bar, having got a head start on the evening. Chris cheerfully waved a pint of Guinness at the new arrivals and then downed a good-sized gulp of the stuff, a moustache of creamy foam clinging to his upper lip. Everyone clustered round the bar, waiting their turn to be served, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

The KA was a noisy, crowded place, truly the quintessential English pub and very popular amongst students. It specialised with great pride in real ale, and had a wide variety of them on offer, as well as wines and whiskies and ciders of various sorts. The food was unpretentious and hearty, exactly what most people coming in to drink had in mind. The walls were plastered with photos of regulars, and sharp-eyed patrons might even spot one of the Queen Mother, ubiquitous handbag in tow, hoisting a pint.

“Right, everybody, drinks are on me,” Draco announced magnanimously, to a chorus of cheers mixed with catcalls. “I’m good for two rounds each. I’ll even kick in what’s left towards food. After that you’re on your own!”

“Ho, generous, Malfoy!” Chris chortled. “Considering you suckered us out of our money in the first place!”

“Bollocks!” Draco laughed, taking a swig from a pint of bitter. “That ten quid went from your hand to mine in a blur, as I recall. You were ready to _raise_ the ante!”

“Too right, Pullman,” Steve cut in. “So you can spring for Malfoy’s dinner with the money you _didn’t_ lose!”

Laughter all around.

Before long, the twelve of them were crammed into a large booth in a corner. Steaming plates of scampi and chips, shepherd’s pie, and fish and chips with the obligatory mushy peas arrived before long to join the tall glasses of stout, bitter and cider already in place. Hermione and a couple of the other girls had opted to try Young’s Waggle Dance, a pale, golden ale laced with honey.

“Less than three weeks before the end of term, can you credit it?” Suze said, shaking her head as she reached for a chip. “I’m so swamped right now, I don’t know which end is up!”

“I know what you mean,” Fiona muttered. “Any of you lot have Cameron?”

Hermione waved from across the table and rolled her eyes.

“The man hates me, I swear!” Fiona groaned. “I think he must have a thing about women students. D’you find, Hermione, that he never quite looks you in the eye?”

Hermione gave a knowing laugh. “Yes! It’s always the floor or the wall just over my shoulder! I’ve been wondering about that! Bit dodgy.”

“Ladies, ladies, let us not undermine the credibility of our esteemed tutors,” Draco tutted. “We are here at this great institution to _learn_ and we must be ever _humble_.”

There were groans, and a chip came flying at his head. His hand shot up and he intercepted it just before it hit his left temple.

“Close, Granger.” Draco gave Hermione a smug grin, popping the tasty missile into his mouth. _Oh yeah. Still got it_.

“What’s everybody doing for the vac?” Tony looked around brightly, changing the subject.

“Not a bloody thing.”

“Fucking nothing, more’s the pity!”

“ _Reading_ , what the fuck d’you think? You’ve got Bates-- _you_ know!”

“Italy.”

Everyone fell silent and all eyes swiveled towards Danny and Chris, who had replied in unison. They were grinning.

“Italy?” Mark was bristling with mock indignation. “You’re going to sodding _Italy?_ And you didn’t say a _word?_ Huh!”

“Actually,” Gemma said, smiling slyly, “ Fee and I are going too.” She winked at Fiona, who grinned and nodded. “A whole romantic week, just the four of us.”

“Yeah,” Danny laughed. “If we don’t end up murdering each other first!”

“Oh, you’re so lucky!” Hermione clasped her hands together, her eyes alight. “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy! Rome especially.”

Draco eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, and then turned his attention back to his shepherd’s pie as the conversation about his friends’ upcoming holiday abroad swelled around him.

An hour later, the plates had been cleared away and in their place stood a fresh round of the pub’s finest.

“Right,” Mark said offhandedly, turning ever so slightly to his right. Mags was deep in conversation with Gillian, glass in hand, and quickly, he dropped a penny in. It sank with a small _plop_ , and instantly everyone’s eyes were on her. She sighed, raising her glass to her lips as the chant went up:

“We like to drink with Maggie, ‘cos Maggie is our mate, she drinks in moderation, and that’s what makes her great, great, great, great, great, great, _great_ …!”

At last, tipping the last of the pint down on the final “great,” she slammed her glass onto the table, red-faced and out of breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and then looking daggers at her boyfriend. He merely smiled complacently and took another swallow of his cider.

Draco was to Mark’s left, and now he caught his friend’s eye; the two of them grinned conspiratorially. A hand stealthily disappeared beneath the table to drop a penny into Draco’s open right palm. His fingers closed over it and slowly, his left hand moved to Hermione’s back, beginning a light massage. As expected, she turned her head to look at him with a smile. She’d been about to take a sip of her beer. Quick as a flash, Draco brought his right hand up and dropped the coin into her glass, swooping in for a kiss before she could say a word. Then he sat back, arms folded, and smiled serenely as everybody cheered.

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up and then her eyes narrowed. She’d been pennied! And the sneaky little ferret was just sitting there as cocky as you please, an infuriatingly smug grin on his face!

She inspected her glass balefully. It was still two thirds full.

“She’s from Hertford, she’s true blue…” he began to sing, gently nudging the glass closer to her lips.

Rolling her eyes and taking a deep breath, Hermione began to down the beer, swallowing steadily.

Everyone else took up the song. “She’s a pisshead through and through. She’s a mate of everyone, but she can’t down that shit in one. Down it! Down it! Down it! Down it! Down it! Down it!…”

 

 _Nearly_ gone, just a little bit more… Hermione took the last bit in a great gulp. Then she put down the glass, let out an enormous and most unladylike belch, wiped her mouth daintily, and blew a kiss at Draco, who sat there in open-mouthed admiration as a roar of appreciative cheers welled up around them.

 

*

 

Twelve wayward members of Hertford College made their shambling, loose-limbed, fuzzy-headed way across Holywell to Catte Street after closing the pub at midnight. Draco’s winnings had only covered about two thirds of the drink they’d wound up consuming, considering how many additional pennies had been surreptitiously dropped into various glasses over the course of the evening, not to mention the food, and now they lurched and slid along the frozen pavement, scaling the mounds of rock-hard snow piled up at the corners with an utter lack of coordination.

“Fucking hell!”

Snickers.

“Well, _help me up then_ , yeah? It’s only the third time I’ve wound up on my bum in the last five minutes!”

“Bloody, buggering _ice_ … why’s it have to be so slippery f’Chrissakes!”

“Right, put your foot there, see that ridge? You can do it, you can… _oh_ … oops…”

“Shit, Gil, why’re you _sitting down?_ ”

“Because I LIKE sitting in the snow, you great plonker! Why do you _think?_ ”

Hysterical laughter.

“Oi! Look at Spencer! He’s got no boots on! Whad’ja do with your boots then, Tony?”

“Think I might’ve left ‘em at the pub…”

“Oh fuck, don’t tell me we have to go _back_ …”

“We have to go back.”

Exaggerated sigh. “No, we don’t -- stupid git’s got ‘em on his _hands!_ ”

“He’s lucky I haven’t shoved one of ‘em up his arse, considering he practically killed me tonight! It’s called _pennying_ for a reason, Spencer! You don’t use 2p! Very nearly choked!”

“Sod off, Pullman, said I was sorry, didn’t I! Anyway…” Sly glance. “Reckon I’d have been doing us all a favour!”

There followed the sound of a well-made snowball making a direct hit and the subsequent yell. Then there was silence, except for the sound of snow crunching underfoot as they all trudged along.

A couple of moments later, a wobbly “’Scuse me, ladies… need to have a piss… any of you gentlemen care to join?”

Several male voices voiced their enthusiastic endorsement of the idea, and the five of them stumbled after Draco, laughing like loons, to the nearest secluded area away from the glare of the streetlamps. In the darkened recesses, they lined up along the wall, still giggling.

“ _Shite_ , I can’t undo the zip… s’stuck!”

“Applegate, you dumb fuck, you’ve caught your pants in the zip!”

“Malfoy, just… Malfoy, _no_ … _BUGGER!_ ”

There was a brief, strangled cry.

The streams of urine that hit the wall a moment later steamed in the frigid night air, accompanied by a chorus of deeply relieved sighs. Standing on the opposite corner under the streetlamp, the girls laughed.

“Blokes are so lucky… all they’ve got to do is pull it out and pee.”

“I know. We have to squat. Ugh!”

“Still… I wouldn’t rather have a cock, would you? Funny-looking things, aren’t they…”

“Imagine walking round with one flopping between your legs… ew!”

Giggles.

“And when they _get hard!_ Must be bloody weird when that happens! Like… you know… it’s _alive_ or something…”

“The Rise of the Monster Cock!”

Snorts of laughter.

“Probably no weirder for them than tits are for us, though.”

“Yeah, but tits don’t grow just because somebody cops a feel! Wish they did!”

“Reckon _they_ do too!”

All six girls glanced over at their boyfriends, still busy in the alleyway.

“Too right they do! Still. Don’t much fancy the idea of suddenly bursting out of my bra without warning.”

“SSSSHHH… here they come!”

Stifled giggles and a hiccough.

“Oi, what’s so funny? Would you look at them. I do believe they’re laughing at us, mates.”

“So they are… C’mon, lads, _let’s get ‘em!_ ”

 

*

 

By the time Hermione and Draco found their way up the stairs to her room, they were fairly soggy for the second time that day, after their second snowball fight within twelve hours. The walk back had gone some way towards sobering them up, though both were still a bit tiddly.

Hermione stood just inside the doorway, shivering, her teeth starting to chatter. With her small frame, all the alcohol had raised her blood sugar and then sent it plummeting, leaving her cold and very tired suddenly.

Draco had been shrugging out of his damp outer clothing, peeling off his gloves and boots, and unwinding his snow-flecked muffler, when he noticed that Hermione wasn’t moving. He shook his head.

“Uh-oh. Too much booze for you, darling.”

Carefully, he began to unbutton her jacket, slipping it from her shoulders and hanging it on the door hook.

“Come on, love,” he said gently, “let’s get you out of these clothes and into a nice, hot shower, yeah?”

Gratefully, she nodded, allowing him to remove all her clothing piece by sodden piece, until finally, she stood in only her bra and knickers, her flesh a pale mass of goose bumps.

Slowly, Draco reached around to unhook her bra, and it fell away to the floor, unheeded.

The desire to touch her was very nearly irresistible, but somehow, he managed to stick to the task at hand. Reaching down, he pulled the lacy little knickers down until they dropped to her ankles, and obediently, she stepped out of them.

In the dim light of the desk lamp, she seemed a pale waif, her dark eyes large in her small, oval face, her skin almost seeming to glow, wraith-like. The chill that had brought on an involuntary trembling had also caused the rosy buds of her breasts to firm and stand erect.

Then, because the temptation was too strong to resist finally, he cupped her breasts, lightly skimming their creamy surface and lingering on the pebbled tips that seemed to harden further under his touch. The delicacy of his explorations was almost too much for her to bear, and she moved into his arms, rubbing herself against him and savouring his warmth. He held her close for a moment and then pushed back a step, grasping her by the shoulders.

“Never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but… we should wait. You’re really chilled, Granger. You need that shower. Here, put on your dressing gown, okay?” He pulled the garment off another hook on the door and drew her arms through the sleeves, closing the front. She belted it and then sat down whilst he took her left foot in his hands.

“You’re so cold,” he murmured, and began to rub first one foot and then the other, kneading her insteps and smoothing his palms over the chilled skin from heels to toes.

“Wherever did you learn to do a foot massage like that?” she sighed blissfully, her eyes closed.

“I’m naturally gifted.” His reply was matter-of-fact as he continued to work her right arch.

“Not to mention big-headed.”

“Hardly. I simply don’t see the point of false modesty. Okay, baby,” he said briskly, giving her calf a light smack. “Up you get!”

The hall was deserted as they made their way to the bathroom, towels in hand.

Swiftly, Draco slipped out of his own clothing, tossing it onto a bench, and then followed Hermione into the shower, where soothing, warm water was already cascading down her back and sluicing over the top of her head.

In her little shower caddy, he found some of the products he’d bought for her in Glastonbury back in December, and now he uncapped the bottle of shampoo and took a sniff, smiling at the familiar apricot scent.

“Turn around,” he murmured, and then he gathered her hair with one hand and began working some shampoo in, his long fingers massaging her scalp just as effectively as they had done her feet earlier.

The warm water fell in a relaxing curtain around them as Draco carefully lathered every inch of Hermione’s skin, moving the sponge, creamy with soap bubbles, in gentle circles along the length of her flesh, from the nape of her neck down the long column of her spine, around the soft curves of her bum and on down to her feet.

“Hermione,” he whispered, and turned her to face him. Her eyes had been closed, but now they opened wide, droplets forming in her lashes and on her cheeks and nose with their dusting of pale freckles, her wet hair slicked back and falling past her shoulder blades.

Drawing a richly scented, soapy trail down between her breasts, he tenderly lathered each one, following the sponge with his fingers so that he could feel the firm, glistening skin for himself as it warmed and began to glow pink with the heat of the water and her growing desire. She sighed and slid her feet further apart on the tiled floor, offering him more.

The sponge gradually made its way south, and he began diligently soaping her inner thighs, moving in ever-widening circles until he reached her sex; then it was his hand that moved through the slick curls, glistening with creamy lather, to find the tender flesh within.

She moaned softly, hooking one leg around his waist in an effort to move more deeply into his caresses, and her hands slid to the small of his back, urging him closer, seeking a final joining of their flesh. Hands cradling her bum, he hoisted her up against the back wall of the shower stall so that both her legs were now wrapped around his waist, impaling her in a single, fluid movement. He slid inside easily, gripping her buttocks and pulling her tightly against him as he began to move. Their breaths mingled in the fervent seal of their mouths, their tongues moving in a twining, sultry, breathless dance as the water splashed down on their upturned faces.

They stood there together, joined under the fall of warm water, until all traces of soap were washed away and the raw desire that had consumed them had begun to recede into increasingly gentle wavelets still rippling between them. It was a delicious sensation and she threaded her arms around him, wanting to prolong it.

Even after he’d slipped out of her, she could still feel his pulse deep inside.

“Mmm…” she sighed finally, kissing a pattern on the smooth, firm flesh of his chest and darting her tongue out to catch a stray droplet of water. “Lovely…”

“ _You_ are,” he murmured in response. “It’s you…”

She raised her head and smiled at him. The wetness on her cheeks might have been tears. He wasn’t certain.

 

*

 

 

_Fat the world  
Then sink your teeth in  
Cannibal and missionary  
Toes are curled, my thanks uneven  
When tales so tall are ordinary_

 _Don't ask, don't tell  
Follow!  
Don't ask, don't tell  
Yeah_

 

Sunday, late morning

 

Their copies of **Heart of Darkness** and their laptops were out and ready, finally. Hot coffee, the best non-magical antidote available for the mild hangovers both of them had awakened with, steamed in the tall, white porcelain mugs on the desk. A pair of buttered muffins pocketed at brunch in Hall earlier sat on an adjacent plate. Still feeling tired and somewhat fuzzy, Hermione was sprawled on her bed, propped up by an array of pillows, and Draco slouched in the butterfly chair, one leg slung over the side. Both were trying to pick up where they’d left off working the day before, and for a time, the only sounds were the inexorable ticking of the alarm clock on the chest of drawers and Draco tapping his Biro against the spiral pad he favoured for initial text notes and page references.

“Ssshh…” Hermione’s brow was furrowed, her eyes riveted on the page.

“Sorry.”

Again, silence but for the ticking of the clock. Then, Hermione sat up and began clicking on the keys of her laptop. It was a light but steady sound, like tiny volleys of rapid machine-gun fire.

Draco looked up. He was having real trouble concentrating today, his thoughts scattering to the winds every time he tried marshalling them into focus. The smallest thing was a distraction, and now the sound of the laptop keys was proving positively ruinous for his concentration.

“Uh… can you type more quietly?” He’d sounded a bit testy, though he hadn’t meant to. “Please,” he added.

Hermione looked at him. “I’ll try…” she said evenly. “But I don’t know if I _can_ be much more quiet than this.”

“Okay,” he replied, and turned back to the page he’d already read three times.

Eventually, the power of the novel reached out and grabbed him, though, and he, too, settled down to some genuinely productive work for a space of time. Hermione was already busy writing; she sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop in front of her, utterly absorbed now. Draco had shifted himself to the rug. Leaning back on a couple of pillows propped up against the side of the bed, he stretched his legs out comfortably as he read and jotted down an occasional note. A companionable silence hung between them for a time as they worked.

Then, “Hermione…?”

She looked up. “Mmm?”

Draco laid the book down on his lap and leaned his head back against the pillows. “I know what Conrad wants to get across, but d’you… d’you think that Marlow _should_ have been able to make a choice? Between the Company and everything it represented and Kurtz, I mean? _Was_ there even a lesser of two evils between the two? Or do you believe that such a choice, under those circumstances, was impossible from the off?”

Hermione sat back against the large, squashy pillows at the head of her bed and sighed. Drawing her knees up, she rested her chin there, gazing down at Draco thoughtfully.

“I do, yes. There was no good choice there. None. It was either the corrupt colonial company that was systematically abusing the natives or a single, charismatic man who happened to be a megalomaniac who favoured using the natives and then exterminating them. Both were cruel and vicious in their own way. What could Marlow have done, really? There was no way out. I mean, both alternatives were totally evil, weren’t they. What third option did he have?”

Draco sat silently for a couple of moments, thinking. “But--” he began. “What about his conscience? What about a clear repudiation of _both_ alternatives? You’re saying—Conrad is saying—that within an insane world, everything’s relative. That there is no firm moral compass, because it’s all just absurd anyway. Nothing makes sense. So there’s no way to really judge, and everybody is off the hook.” He shook his head. “Moral relativism. I’m sorry. I don’t accept that.”

“No, not moral relativism! No, no, it isn’t that, exactly— more like moral ambiguity. Confusion. Once people are living within a system where it’s all gone mad essentially, what do you measure your life against that makes any sense? Marlow couldn’t be held responsible for insanity he didn’t create.” Hermione slid off the bed to sit next to Draco on the rug. “Look,” she said, her fingertips glancing lightly over the back of his hand for just a moment. “Marlow lost his way. He was trying to put the pieces together but they just _didn’t fit_. Can we really fault him because he failed?”

“Yes. He _failed_ because he bought into all of it in the first place and _then_ couldn’t work out how to get away.” Draco’s mouth was set in a tight line.

“No! I don’t agree! He accepted the world he found himself thrust into because it was the logical extension of everything he knew. He was just one person. What was he supposed to do, try and change things single-handedly?” She was looking steadily at him now, her brow furrowed.

“Every single person makes a difference. You of all people know that. Fuck’s sake, Hermione, it’s what you’ve always believed!” Draco gazed back at her fiercely.

“I know, and I still do! But look—you have to be able to distinguish between a situation you can genuinely do something about and one where your hands are tied. Marlow’s hands were tied.” _Your hands were tied._ “Surely you must see that?” Her voice had taken on a pleading tone.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I think the novel fails in this respect.” He heaved himself up off the rug and looked down at her. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me you think _Kurtz_ shouldn’t be held responsible for his acts either. I mean, if you’re going to be really consistent, Granger, you’d _have_ to support that view.”

Now Hermione felt her ire rising. She did not appreciate being backed into a corner this way.

“Of course I don’t believe that, and you know it, Malfoy!” Her eyes flashed. “Quite clearly, he brought his racist attitudes with him when he went to Africa. They didn’t just spring, fully blown, into his head once he got there!”

“Ah, but isn’t it _conceivable_ ,” Draco said, a strangely hard set to his smile, his eyes glittering, “that his views evolved in direct response to the environment he entered into when he arrived? By that I mean the Company’s exploitation of the natives and the natural resources. Couldn’t his attitudes just as reasonably be the _product_ of such a poisoned environment?”

“Stop it, Draco!” Hermione found she was unconsciously clenching her fists now, and she took a breath to steady herself. “ _He_ was a source of the corruption, a lot of it anyway. He and the Company, and everything they represented—colonialism itself! He helped to _create_ the poison that was destroying the natives and ultimately himself. _He_ wasn’t a victim!”

“Oh, but by your lights, he really _was_ ,” Draco said softly. “Even if his virulent racism was inherent and he brought the corruption with him to Africa, where did such beliefs begin? Nobody is _born_ a racist, Hermione. You know that.”

She glanced at him sharply, stopped in her tracks by the irrefutable logic of his words. “That’s true,” she replied at last, gradually warming to her thoughts as they took shape. “ _Still_ \-- Kurtz made conscious, deliberate choices when he had natives murdered. When he wrote, ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’ There has to come a point when we’re held accountable for our actions!”

There was a palpable pause.

And then Draco smiled, a hard, mirthless grimace. “Precisely.”

Abruptly, he turned and strode to the door, where his jacket and muffler hung on a hook. “Need some air. See you later.”

Hermione watched the door shut behind him, confusion in her large eyes. As she sank back down on the edge of the bed, she felt bereft suddenly. Pulling the spare quilt over her shoulders, she hugged it around herself and gazed out the window, watching as scattered snowflakes began to fly.

 

*

 

There was a persistent drip from the tap in the small sink. She must remember to report that and have it seen to. How was she supposed to get any work done with that incessant _drip, drip, drip_?

Hermione glanced at the clock. Half four. Draco had been gone for nearly three hours. It would be dark outside before long. She turned back to her laptop, where she’d been trying to work on that bloody Conrad essay. It was only about half done and she was growing frustrated at her lack of progress.

 _He_ failed… _bought into all of it... couldn’t work out how to get away… Every person makes a difference… Nobody is_ born _a racist… What about his conscience… his conscience… What about… Need some air… see you_ …

Enough. She closed the laptop with a snap and pushed off the bed, slipping into her boots and reaching for her jacket.

The lanes that enclosed the college buildings were fairly deserted, save for the odd individual scurrying in the direction of one of the residence halls or on his or her way to the library. A narrow path had been cleared along the pavements, but now it was covered in a treacherous film of black ice from the snow that had liquified mid-day when the temperatures had risen slightly, and then frozen over again in the late afternoon when they’d plummeted once more. Hermione found it slightly easier to walk on the snow itself. It crunched beneath her feet as she made her way to Staircase 5.

 

 

 

Peter Lawson was just passing as she came in the ground-floor entrance.

“Have you seen Draco?” she asked him. He shook his head, shrugged, and then disappeared out the door into the late-afternoon gloom.

She made her way up to the third floor and knocked on Draco’s door first. She wasn’t surprised, somehow, when the answer was dead silence. She tried Tony’s door next.

No answer. He could be anywhere. Her stomach rumbled slightly and she pressed her palm to it, hoping to relieve the small gnawing sensation she suddenly felt. She’d forgotten to eat lunch.

Right, then. Eric. She knocked at number ten. A muffled, rather irritated voice answered. It sounded suspiciously like “Fuck off!” He’d been sleeping, apparently. Or not. Or… possibly not alone at least. She backed away and turned to the only door left on the landing, number eleven.

“Mark?” she said tentatively. “You there?” She waited a few seconds and tried again. “Mark? It’s me, Hermione.”

Silence. Feeling rather dejected, she turned and had just taken a couple of steps towards the staircase when the door opened behind her.

“What’s up?” Mark scratched his stubbly chin, looking at her quizzically.

“It’s Draco. I’m… I can’t find him. Have you seen him at all this afternoon?” She tried to keep her voice conversational and light, and not betray the small kernel of worry that had lodged in her chest.

Mark thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, yeah. He was here… must have been about an hour ago, I think. In and out, though. I wouldn’t have known he was here at all except that he banged on my door the way he always does when he passes. Woke me up.”

“And you’ve no idea where he might have gone, then?”

“Sorry, no, I haven’t. I was only half awake, and he didn’t stop to talk. I’d offer to help you look, except I’m expecting Mags any minute.” Mark looked genuinely apologetic. “You’ll find him, don’t worry.”

“Thanks…” Hermione managed a small, half-hearted smile and backed away.

 

The library. She’d try there.

He wasn’t at the table they often favoured, for starters. Reference room—no. The computer room. Not there either. The stacks—definitely worth a try. Wandering up and down the narrow aisles, their endless shelves of books waiting, tantalising, beckoning to her as she passed, she stubbornly resisted the temptation they offered and continued to search. She’d half expected to find him sitting on the floor in one of the aisles, his long legs stretched out as far as space would allow, nose buried in a book. But there was no sign of him anywhere.

 

  
Hertford College library stacks

 

Where, where…?

It was still a bit early for dinner, but she went to Old Quad anyway, hurrying up the winding staircase that led to the dining hall. A quick scan told her he wasn’t there.

Nearly half five and getting dark. It was considerably colder now, as she stood outside once again. Stupidly, in her haste, she’d run out without a hat, gloves or muffler. Shivering, she shoved her hands into her pockets and considered where to try next. She was rapidly running out of ideas.

There was one more place… just possibly… worth trying anyway. She set off at a near-run, trying not to slip on the icy pavement.

Down Catte Street and a quick left into the High. She checked her watch, chafing her hands together in an attempt to regain feeling in her cold, stiff fingers. 5.40 pm. She quickened her pace.

Ah, there. The Rose. Still open. Under its familiar white awning, bright light spilled onto the snow-crusted pavement, a warm and welcome beacon to a very tired, chilled Hermione. And there, through the large front window, she spotted a familiar blond head bent over a steaming cup. An overwhelming sense of glad relief flooded her and she couldn’t help grinning as she drew near the door-- and then relief turned to indignation.

“Closing in twenty minutes, Miss,” she was told as she entered. Hermione waved her hand in recognition and nodded. Draco looked up as she approached. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione nipped in ahead of him, her hands on her hips.

“Do you know, Draco Malfoy, that for the past hour, I have been all over sodding Oxford looking for you? In the freezing cold! Look at me, I can’t even feel my fingers anymore!” She stuck out her reddened, chilled hands. “What did you think you were playing at, disappearing for hours and scaring me half to death!” Beneath her anger, her voice had begun to quaver. “I didn’t know where you were! I waited for you to come back, and you didn’t… you just _didn’t_.”

Suddenly exhausted, she sank into the chair opposite Draco, which he had hastily leaned over to pull out for her. Inexplicably, she could feel tears coming, and chagrined, she covered her face with her hands and tried to swallow them down.

Warm fingers gently pried her hands from her face and then covered them, massaging her cold, chapped skin. She looked up into a pair of grey eyes grown dark with concern and contrition.

“It was stupid. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just felt so angry…” he began and then, seeing her eyes widen and grow suspiciously watery again, hastened to add, “Not at _you_ , love! Sorry! I didn’t mean _that!_ Here…” He plucked a clean napkin from the table and handed it to her. She gave him a small, quavery smile as she dabbed at her eyes, nodding her thanks. “Hungry?”

Hermione nodded again. “Famished, actually. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

He pushed his plate over to her. Half a very nice-looking sandwich remained. “Finish it. I’ve had plenty. Fancy something hot to drink?”

“Mmm. Yes, please. Some cocoa would be nice.”

Draco got up and went to the counter, speaking quietly to the owner. She nodded, smiled, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“We can stay a bit. They won’t kick us out,” he said, his fingers playing idly with hers.

Just then, her hot chocolate arrived, richly fragrant, with clouds of cream rising in peaks on top. The waitress set down the tall mug and a long-stemmed spoon.

“Something to eat, love?” she asked. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything cooked now—kitchen’s closed—but what about a scone or a nice bit of cake, perhaps?”

Hermione nodded, her mouth full of a bite of Draco’s sandwich, a mouthwatering combination of ham and melted Gruyere on buttery, grilled bread. Swallowing, she began, “Lemon raspberry square, pl--”

“ _Two_ , please,” Draco corrected. “Tradition, Granger. Very important,” he said with mock seriousness.

Hermione smiled to herself as she dipped the spoon into the whipped cream and offered it to Draco; he opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him, savouring the cream and then cleaning his lips with a leisurely flick of the tongue.

“Good?” she asked softly. He nodded, his eyes darkening for a moment as he gazed intently at her. A familiar, answering flutter caused her cheeks to colour, and she shifted in her seat. Gods, what he could do to her with just a look!

Forcing her attention back to her plate, she polished off the sandwich in short order. All the while, he sipped his tea, watching her quietly. Taking a forkful of the cake at last, she sat back, regarding him with a thoughtful look. Finally, she spoke.

“You’re not Marlow,” she said with quiet finality. “ _You_ weren’t ambivalent.”

“Yeah—not _finally_ ,” he muttered. “Took me long enough, though, didn’t it.”

“That’s not important!”

“It is to _me_.”

Hermione sighed. “I understand. Really I do. But you were under a lot of pressure, weren’t you. It can’t have been easy, making that decision and then actually following through. Draco, you’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself!” She toyed with the cake on her plate for a moment, and then seemed to come to a decision about something. “I’ve… I’ve told them, you know. Harry and Ron. How you helped the Order.”

Draco’s head shot up and he stared openly at her. “You _did?_ Why?”

“Because… because I thought they should know that about you. Because,” she said, her voice very soft now, “I’m proud of you, Malfoy. It was quite dangerous, what you did, secretly breaking with your family that way, and working to bring Voldemort down. You were really brave.”

A flush of sudden emotion welled up in his chest, threatening to unman him before he managed to fight it back down. He said simply, “Wish I’d been able to be open about it, though. I hate that people still think of me as a Death Eater.”

“But then… why didn’t you ever tell anybody about it afterwards? I’ve never understood that.”

Draco snorted derisively. “As if anybody would’ve believed me! You know better. They’d have reckoned I’d just made it up to get into the winning side’s good graces. And the only person who could have corroborated my story was dead. Potter and Weasley probably still believe that.”

Hermione’s eyes were flashing again. “But the truth of what Snape himself had been doing came out eventually anyway! If people were capable of accepting that, they could’ve accepted your story as well. I mean, in light of Snape having really worked for Dumbledore the entire time, it’s totally credible. Look,” she said, catching his hand and holding it firmly, forcing his gaze back to hers. “Everyone knows how miserable you were at school, that you couldn’t bring yourself to kill Dumbledore, and how withdrawn you were after that. Even I heard about that secondhand. You don’t give people enough credit, Malfoy. I think they’d have believed you. And they will now. If you give them a chance, that is.”

He looked away, busying himself with picking a piece of lint off his shirt. Trust. Could he really trust that anyone who’d known him from before, outside of his own friends, would ever really see past the very image he himself had so carefully cultivated for years? Hermione had done, though, hadn’t she. If she could, maybe…

“Anyway,” she was saying, “everyone’s going to find out now, I’m afraid, whether you want them to or not. Now that Harry and Ron know, I mean.”

“Too right,” Draco agreed, shaking his head and grinning ruefully. “They never could keep their mouths shut, neither one of ‘em. Well, I’m glad, really, I suppose…”

“You’re… you’re not angry with me, then?”

He shook his head, and gave her hand a squeeze. “No. Better coming from you than from me. Did they… how did they react?”

Hermione put down her mug and wiped her mouth. “Shock, mainly. At first, anyway. Absolutely gobsmacked, the pair of them. Ron was still going on about what a load of shite you’d probably been feeding me and how I was so gullible and always looking to take care of strays”-- at this, Draco frowned and made a disgusted sound deep in his throat-- “but Harry got very quiet. He just looked at me for a long time without saying anything at all. And then finally, he just… he just nodded, you know? As if pieces of a puzzle had clicked together in his head. And then he said…”

“What?” Despite himself, Draco really wanted to know.

“ ‘Good.’ Just ‘good,’ nothing else. And then he smiled at me. See, you have to remember-- we were right there when Snape died. Ron wasn’t. And Harry… Harry was very affected by that, and by what he saw later in the Pensieve, you know? There was a lot more than what he found out about you. Some of it was very personal to him. Snape had been in love with his mother. For years. Turns out they’d been children together, before Hogwarts. I know—shocking, right?” She smiled slightly at Draco’s surprise before continuing. “He’d have done anything for her. Including looking out for Harry all those years.”

She stopped, letting Draco process this revelation.

“So… besides protecting me… he agreed to help Dumbledore protect Harry,” he said slowly. “For…”

“Lily Potter, yes. For the sake of her memory. He’d never stopped loving her. It was all quite a shock. It was obvious from the Pensieve memories that there was much more to Snape than Harry had ever imagined. And don’t forget, he’d been misjudged himself, for ages. Despite what Dumbledore said, almost nobody believed Harry about Voldemort after the Triwizard Tournament. He was vilified in the press, and the Ministry did everything they could to discredit him. He put up with such a lot of distrust and hostility for so long, all of fifth year! Everybody thought he was so full of himself, just an attention-seeker.”

She refrained from pointing out that this had been precisely what Draco had not only thought, but proclaimed loudly to anyone who’d listened. He didn’t need reminding, however, and flushed slightly.

Hermione pretended not to notice. “I think that Harry understands better than anybody that a person isn’t necessarily what he appears to be. You _know_ …” she said pointedly, her gaze shifting to meet his directly and hold it. “If you got to know Harry, you might just find that your old notions about him have been wrong too.”

For all he knew, she might just be right. In any case, from a purely practical standpoint—considering the direction in which things between him and Granger seemed to be going-- it simply made sense that he should make an effort. He could meet Potter halfway, he supposed, and then see.

He nodded slowly.

They’d finished their food and it was well past six now. The café manager was clearly anxious to close up for the night.

“Come on, Granger,” he said briskly, rising from his chair and holding out a hand to Hermione. “Let’s go home.”

 _Home_.

He wondered when he’d started thinking of _here_ in quite that way.

 

  
The Rose Café, 51 High Street, Oxford

 

 

*

 

Late that night—

 

“I’m sorry, Hermione.” The words were whispered into her hair as she lay spooned against him, their skin still flushed with the exertions of their lovemaking. He wasn’t sure she was awake and even less certain he had truly intended to be heard. But he had needed to say it again.

There was a palpable silence for a couple of very long minutes. And then she rolled over, pressing her hands and face into the warmth of his chest. “I know,” she whispered in return. “It’s okay.”

He swallowed hard and hugged her tightly to him. “It’s only… sometimes I just have to get away, get out… it’s like my head’s about to explode or something… I feel like I’m _suffocating_. It wasn’t you. You know that.”

She nodded against his skin, the golden halos of baby-fine hair around his nipples tickling her cheek.

Moving aside her luxuriant hair-- now tangled and wild from the ministrations of his hands as he’d slid his fingers through it, clutching handfuls of her curls, kissing them—he bent his head, pressing his lips to the spot where her neck and shoulder joined and inhaling deeply. His exhaled breath tickled, and she laughed softly, tightening her arms around him.

“Draco.”

Her voice was a murmur, his name floating back to him like a leaf drifting gently on the current. He closed his eyes and slept, elusive dreams fluttering against the corners of his consciousness like iridescent moth wings.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks and props to my wonderful betas, kazfeist and mister_otter, for their time, support, and meticulous attention not only to the words but what’s behind them.
> 
> A year at Oxford is divided into three terms of eight weeks each: Michaelmas, Hilary, and Trinity.
> 
> Hertford College is made up of three quads: Holywell, mainly for first-years, Old Quad, also known as OB (for “Old Building”) Quad, and New Quad (NB Quad).
> 
> “Pennying” is a longstanding tradition at both Oxford and Cambridge (though not necessarily at all the colleges), and other universities in the UK as well. For more information, read about it here:
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pennying
> 
> In the UK, “pants” are underwear, not trousers. We can safely assume, from Mark’s pained reaction to Draco’s assistance, that he had caught more than just his underwear in the zip.
> 
> The song “Follow,” which inspired the chapter title and from which lyrics are quoted, is by the amazing band Incubus (melody and lyrics by Brandon Boyd). For me, it captures completely what Conrad was doing in **Heart of Darkness** , and also articulates the terrible dilemma that Draco and others in Slytherin, and probably many in the wider pure-blood world, would have felt at being caught in the middle of the madness that Voldemort inflicted on the wizarding world.


	18. Worlds in a Tangle, Part One

 

Tuesday, 14 March

The day had been ordinary enough up to that point.

On his way back to his room from the library, weary from several hours of concentrated reading, Draco had made a detour at the porter’s lodge to pick up the post, such as it was. Generally speaking, he never got too much of anything substantial—sometimes there would be a “pigeon post” from a friend—but mostly just circulars from local concerns wanting to drum up student business, and of course, official correspondence from the university that would ordinarily have been sent home. Except that in his case, of course, to do that would be pointless. His parents had nothing whatsoever to do with any aspect of his university life, and he found he really preferred it that way.

The moment he stuck his hand into the pigeon hole, however, he knew today was different.

His fingers closed around a fair-sized envelope, its paper a heavy, creamy stock. Pulling it out, back side up, he recognised it immediately as one of a set of stamped envelopes he’d given his mother before leaving home after the last vacation. She’d actually begun writing to him after that-- somewhat erratically, however, probably due to her residual reluctance even to walk into the Muggle post office in the village, much less do any sort of business there.

As he walked back to Staircase 5 somewhat distractedly, he ran his fingers over the front of the envelope. The very distinctive handwriting was definitely his mother’s, a rather spidery, ornate script obviously penned with a quill.

Letting himself into his room, he tossed his rucksack onto the desk chair and flopped down against the pillows on the unmade bed, the letter in hand.

 

 _11 March_

 _Dearest Draco,_ he read.

 _We received your most recent letter several days ago. I confess, I am very disappointed to learn that you won’t be coming home for your holiday, or “vacation” as you put it, between terms. Your father and I were quite looking forward to seeing you, and I had some lovely things planned._

 _We’ve discussed it, however, and decided that we should like to come and visit you instead. I shall leave it to you to make dinner arrangements, and of course, do please invite Miss Granger. You need not worry about a hotel for us. We have already booked into the Damselfly for the night._

 _I am assuming, from comments you’ve made, that you have not as yet acquainted yourself with the wizarding sector of Oxford. You may reach it by way of the passage between Payne and Son, Silversmiths, and the Britannia Building Society, off the High Street. Follow that passage to the Chequers. When you enter the pub, walk through to the back. There is a locked door marked “storage” between the Ladies and Gents. Simply tap it once with your wand and then you’ll be able to go through. You’ll find that it opens into Bellewether Crescent._

 _Hixon and Grundleston’s Apothecaries is at number 9. I have some shopping to do, so we shall meet you there at three in the afternoon, Saturday next. Father and I look forward to seeing both you and Miss Granger then._

 _Hoping this letter finds you well,_

 _Mother_

 

His parents. _Here._ In only a matter of days. Whatever fatigue he’d been feeling earlier had vanished completely. He glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Hermione would be nearly done with her shift by now.

Pulling his jacket back on, he hurried out the door, taking the three flights of stairs at a sprint. The afternoon had turned overcast and chilly, the sky leaden, heavy with the threat of a late snow, and he pulled the hood of his fleece up over his head as he ran.

Blackwell’s, at number 50 Broad Street, was just minutes away at such a pace. Draco arrived slightly winded, stopping just inside the entrance to catch his breath, his pale skin flushed with the cold and the exertion. He leaned back against the doorframe and shut his eyes.

“Malfoy! Did you come to collect me, or… what is it? What’s the matter?”

Hermione’s voice shook him out of his reverie. She’d just come up the stairs from the Norrington Room, where she’d been shelving new arrivals, and spotted Draco waiting by the door. She stood, coat slung over one arm, her initial expression of happy surprise turning to concern.

“Come on,” he said grimly, helping her on with her coat and then taking her arm. “Let’s get a coffee. I need to talk to you!”

He pulled her along at a fairly rapid clip, Hermione practically running to keep up with him as they made their way up Broad Street, weaving around traffic to cross to the other side. The Buttery at number 11 was not terribly busy at this hour, and they threw their things down on an empty table near the front window before walking to the counter to place their order.

Hermione blew a stray curl out of her eyes. “What was all the rush about? You very nearly pulled my arm out of its socket!”

“You’re not going to believe it. I’ve just had a letter from my mother, and she’s coming _here._ With my _father._ On _Saturday!_ ” He exhaled explosively, running a hand distractedly through his hair, static electricity causing a handful of silver-blond strands to stand straight up from his head.

“ _Here?_ You’re joking! Why ever are they doing _that_ all of a sudden?” She shrugged off her jacket, slipping it over the back of the chair.

Just then the waitress appeared, smiling pleasantly. Her smile deepened once she’d had a good look at Draco.

“Sorry, we’re not ready yet.” He made a show of studying the menu and examining the enticing choices behind the glass.

“Take your time, love. No hurry.” She winked and turned to wait on another customer.

Hermione scanned the menu quickly and then laid it down. “Cappuccino for me. Want to share something? I’m really in the mood for lemon cake.”

“Yeah, okay…” he murmured. “Sounds fine. One cappuccino, one espresso, and a lemon cake to share,” he told the waitress, who had returned and stood poised to take their order. “Thanks.”

“Back in a tick,” she smiled, dropping her gaze coquettishly for a moment. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

It never failed. Or practically never, anyway. No matter where they went, if there were even one female in the vicinity, said female was bound to make an arse of herself over Malfoy. It didn’t even seem to matter if Hermione were there. Well, that was simply not _on,_ not anymore. Because he was _her_ Malfoy now.

“Stupid cow was flirting with you!” Hermione muttered as they sat down, sending a filthy look in the direction of the waitress, who still had a rather silly grin on her face as she prepared their drinks behind the counter. “Right in front of me!”

“Was she? I hadn’t noticed,” Draco said absently, staring out the window.

Hermione rolled her eyes, although now she realised how upset he must be. Ordinarily, his radar was very keen when it came to detecting flirtatious female vibes directed his way. If he actually hadn’t noticed the appreciative glances and the sickening purr in that woman’s voice, something really was up. She reached over and laid a comforting hand on his forearm, bared when he’d pushed up the sleeves of his jumper.

“So—you didn’t tell me—why are they coming to Oxford now, all of a sudden? I thought you said they were totally opposed to your studying here and had no desire to come.”

“That’s what I thought! It’s because I decided not to go home this vac, Mother said.”

Hermione nodded. “My parents weren’t exactly happy about it either. They want to see me at some point. In fact…” she began, and then trailed off. The phone conversation she’d had with them that morning could wait.

“Well, apparently, mine want to see me as well. Or at least my mother does. Having rather a hard time believing that about my father though,” he said, with a short laugh. The undercurrent of bitterness in it was impossible to miss. He drew the letter out of his pocket, sliding it across the table to Hermione. “See for yourself.”

Hermione opened the letter and scanned it quickly, her eyebrows shooting up momentarily. When she handed it back to Draco, her expression was entirely neutral however.

“You’ll have to get your hours at Blackwell’s changed, you know,” she remarked matter-of-factly. “As of now, you’re on for next Saturday from eleven to five.”

“Is _that_ all you have to say, Granger? That I’ll have a scheduling conflict?” Draco was plainly incredulous. He’d expected that at the very least, he’d be having to calm her down from an attack of nerves at the very prospect of having to join the Malfoys for most of an afternoon, for dinner, and quite possibly more than dinner, depending on how long they decided to stay.

The waitress came back just as Hermione opened her mouth to reply. Shutting it firmly, she waited as the two steaming mugs were placed before them, followed by a plate of moist, fragrant lemon cake and a pair of forks. The waitress leaned over Draco slightly, smiling. No doubt so he can look down her blouse, Hermione thought sourly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Give me a shout if there’s anything else I can do for you, won’t you, love,” she purred. “My name’s Hazel.”

“Thanks, Hazel,” Hermione cut in with an ingratiatingly toothy smile. “We certainly will. And no…” Her voice dropped and she paused, waiting until the waitress was well out of earshot. “That isn’t all I have to say. Of course it isn’t! It’s just that… well… I… I just didn’t want to let myself get all freaked out. I mean… I know spending time with your parents is inevitable as long as…”

“As long as?” Draco asked quietly, one eyebrow raised, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Well, as long as we’re…” A faint flush coloured her cheeks becomingly. “Oh, _you know!_ ”

“Yes, I know, love,” he grinned. “Well, then, expect to spend _lots_ of quality time with my parents, because I intend to keep you around for quite some time.”

“And how do you know it isn’t me deciding I want to keep _you_ around, then? Hmm?” Hermione challenged, a teasing glint in her eye.

“And _do_ you? Want to keep me around, I mean?” His expression was suddenly much more serious and it sobered her immediately.

Her dark eyes were lambent as she gazed at him, her hands reaching for his. “You know I do, Draco.”

“Good. Because you see…” His tone was nonchalant. “I’ve got rather used to you by now, Granger. It would be an awful bother, having to break in somebody new.”

“I see,” Hermione huffed in mock affront. “Of course, I shouldn’t like to _inconvenience_ you. I realise you’re probably--”

And then Draco leaned in, smothering her words with a swift kiss, and whatever she had been about to say was forgotten. She relaxed almost immediately, returning it with a fervour to match his own.

Finally, they broke apart for air.

“Hmmm… very clever, Malfoy!”

“I rather thought so…”

There was a moment or two of silence as they sipped their drinks and had bites of the cake, both of them unsuccessfully fighting back grins. Then Hermione looked thoughtfully at him, resting her chin on the heel of her hand.

“We’ve never been. To the wizarding part of Oxford, I mean,” she remarked presently.

“I know. I haven’t _wanted_ to go. I just… I wanted to keep Oxford free of all that. No ties to the past.” He studied the last of his coffee, swirling it around in the mug, and then looked at her steadily. “I’m not proud of who I was in the wizarding world. You know that. What if… well, what if I get there, and then find I want to keep going back? Then everything I’ve worked so hard for here could be totally fucked. I don’t know, I s’pose I feel like I _need_ to keep that part of me separate from who I am here, you know?”

“And you have done. Brilliantly. I really admire you, y’know,” Hermione said quietly. “It can’t have been easy.”

“Well…yeah. It _was_ hard-- at first, anyway,” Draco admitted. “You know, just learning all the everyday stuff to do with living without magic. Learning not to turn to it right off, the way I’ve done all my life. There’s so much. But on a deeper level, it was surprisingly easy. Rather a relief, even.”

He looked away for a moment, but Hermione took his hands in hers, willing him back to her. “Malfoy, listen. What you’ve achieved… all of it… _nothing_ can take that away from you. I understand how you’re feeling, but honestly— going to Bellewether Crescent won’t change anything, not now.” She looked at him hard, forcing him to meet her eyes. “And neither will your father being here. I promise. You’re stronger than that. _We’re_ stronger than that.

“And besides…” She took a breath and plunged ahead, her words for his ears alone now. “No matter how far from magic you go, you are a wizard, just as I am a witch. We are what we are, and there’s no getting away from it, even when we are choosing not to do magic. It wasn’t _being_ a wizard that was the problem, Draco. It was being a certain _kind_ of wizard. And you are _not_ that person anymore. You haven’t been for some time.

“So,” she concluded, her gaze resolute and sure as she regarded him, “you mustn’t worry about the effect that Bellewether Crescent will have on your life here. After all, we went to Diagon Alley together, and Glastonbury as well, and you know how many magical folk were there. _Loads._ You were fine then. It shouldn’t be any different just because it’s here in Oxford.”

She gauged his expression quickly, hoping her argument was convincing. She knew that in truth, it was flawed, and that he could quite reasonably make the case that this situation was, in fact, different. But instead of scepticism, she saw relief on his face, the sheer force of her conviction evidently having persuaded him.

“Frankly,” Hermione added, relieved herself, “I’d be surprised if there _weren’t_ a magical community here, of all places. We were bound to come across it eventually. And… well… there’s something else. I totally understand that this place is a sort of refuge for you. But you know…” She laid her hand on top of his. “We won’t be here forever. We’ll finish our degrees and then, you’ll still have to deal with being a wizard and decide how you want to conduct yourself for the rest of your life.”

Draco nodded. Her words made a good deal of sense, really. He was a wizard and always would be. Much as he enjoyed the freedom of not having to be whilst here, he couldn’t escape that fundamental reality. And to be completely truthful, he wasn’t even all that certain he really wanted to, in the end. But he did have a choice about how to think and behave. And there was somebody who believed he could make the right one.

Hermione dropped a quick kiss on his palm and then gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m knackered! Let’s go, yeah?” Glancing at the bill the waitress had left on the table, she began rooting around in her shoulder bag, finally pulling out her wallet. “£4.50. Not bad. _My_ treat this time!” she said firmly, her tone making it clear that she would brook no arguments.

Draco threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender, laughing. “Fine with me! I rather like being a kept man.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she sighed, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here!”

 

*

 

Early Saturday morning, 18 March

“Lucius?” Narcissa Malfoy carefully replaced the bone china cup in its saucer, the remains of her coffee tepid now. Her husband’s gaze was directed towards the French doors that led to the terrace. He appeared not to have heard.

“ _Lucius_.”

Turning his head finally, Lucius Malfoy regarded his wife with a mildly curious expression. “I’m sorry—were you saying something? What is it, my dear?”

Narcissa sighed. “I merely wanted—well, it’s just… I’m very anxious that our visit with Draco go well. You _will_ make an effort to get along with him, _won’t_ you… We haven’t seen him since just after New Year’s. It’s been more than two months. And… well…”

“Yes, I know,” Lucius sighed. “He and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

The long look Narcissa gave him was also a keenly appraising one. “It’s been bothering you all this time, hasn’t it… what he told us in December.”

Lucius shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You know me too well, Cissa.” He rose from the table, his cup and saucer in his hands, and moved to the French doors, gazing out through them to the manicured Lady Garden situated below the terrace, the remains of a light coating of frost riming the bare branches of its trees and shrubs. “I can’t deny it. I still find it astounding that he would have gone so far as to…”

“Follow the dictates of his conscience, finally?”

“That _wasn’t_ what I was about to say,” Lucius replied dryly. He turned back to face his wife now. “No. Bad enough that he went so far as to actively assist the other side. But all the while, he was merely going through the _motions_ of being a dutiful son, allowing us to carry on believing we had his unwavering loyalty. That is what really rankles, Narcissa. He deliberately deceived us for months on end. Quite apart from the fact that he passed information that could have put his own parents in jeopardy. Does that not trouble you even a little bit?”

“Well…” Narcissa began slowly, pushing her cup and saucer away and folding her hands together. “I would be lying if I said that this aspect of things hasn’t upset me at all. It has. But you know, Lucius—the truth is, all of that notwithstanding, I find myself proud of him more than anything else. I’ve told you before—I watched that boy suffer for a long time under the yoke of what he was being made to do. You weren’t here for a lot of that.”

“True. Although given a choice between being at home to deal with Draco’s crisis of conscience and having a jolly holiday in Azkaban, I think the choice would have been a fairly straightforward one.” His tone was sardonic.

“Stop it, Lucius! That was uncalled for!” Narcissa felt herself beginning to tremble with the anger that was rising in her. “Perhaps the question we really ought to be asking ourselves is how we could ever have stood by and allowed the Dark Lord to use our child in the way he did, regardless of our alliance with him—I blame myself for that during the time you were in prison. It still haunts me. I’ll always wonder if I could have done more. If anything, you ought to be furious that I was even put into such a position with Draco whilst you were gone—having to stand by and watch him suffer that way. If _anything_ ,” she repeated, her eyes narrowed and her voice very low, “you should count yourself lucky you _weren’t_ here to see it! Although I doubt it would have affected you overmuch at the time. Voldemort had you wrapped round his little finger.”

Narcissa’s laughter was brittle. “And then afterwards—that last year at Hogwarts…what he was forced to witness and be a part of… at our behest…” She shuddered. “Thank the gods for Severus. At least he was able to spare our son the lifelong torment of knowing he was Albus Dumbledore’s murderer, and then help him find a way to cope with all the horrors by doing what he felt was right in the end. And so much of what our son suffered was in the service of the Dark Lord’s twisted scheme to punish _you_. You know that.”

The silence between them grew to what seemed immeasurable minutes before Lucius replied.

“I do, yes,” he said heavily, returning to his chair and slumping down in it, his body betraying a sudden and powerful exhaustion of spirit. “He played his little games consummately well. I’m…” Here, Lucius seemed to struggle for the will to get the words out, staring fixedly at a point on the wall somewhere beyond his wife. “I’m… grateful to you, Cissa, “ he said finally. “For doing what you did to protect Draco. I should have told you that long ago. I regret that it took me until now to say it.”

Narcissa stood and moved swiftly to her husband’s side, sitting down and covering his hands with her own. “Thank you for that,” she said quietly. They sat together in silence for a brief time, and then she gave his hands a squeeze. “We’ll have a good visit. You’ll see. Just…” She trailed off, wanting to say so much, not knowing where to begin. _Let him breathe. Let him take the lead, be himself, show you this part of his life that he’s so proud of now. Be open and listen to him finally. Please._ “Just…”

He patted her hand. “I know.” Leaning in, his lips brushed hers lightly and then his voice turned deceptively brisk as he stood, pulling her to her feet. “Come, wife! We’ve a trip to make in a few hours’ time. Things to do!”

 

*

 

That afternoon--

“Malfoy!”

“Hmm?”

“Do I look all right?”

“What?” Distractedly. “Oh—yeah, ‘course you do. You always do.”

“How do you know? You’re not even _looking_ at me!” Slight hysteria in her voice. “STOP!”

They had been sprinting along Catte Street towards the High and had just passed the Radcliffe Camera when Hermione stuck her hand out, finally, plucking at Draco’s arm.

“Draco! _Please._ Stop a minute,” she panted. “I know you’re a bit on edge, but can’t we slow down a little? I’m all out of breath and with all this running, I’m going to look a fright when we finally get there!”

Draco really looked at Hermione then. The ends of her hair were lifting in the light breeze, the chill dampness in the air causing the curls to frame her face more emphatically and frizz just a bit. Her cheeks were flushed (rather prettily, he thought) and her eyes were bright but wide, and slightly desperate-looking.

His smile, meant to reassure her, was just a bit edgy as well. “Sorry, love. You look great. Honestly. Just…” He reached out and patted at her hair with both hands, smoothing it down and then lingering to wrap a small curl around his finger playfully. “There. All better. We really should get going, though—I don’t want to be--”

Hermione glanced down at her watch. “Malfoy, relax! No way are we going to be late! It’s only half past two! They won’t even be here for another half hour. We have time. Come on,” she grinned infectiously, pushing a persistent curl out of her eyes and taking his hand. “Let’s _walk_.”

A small, answering grin escaped him, and he nodded, squeezing her hand briefly, and then they moved on, this time at a more leisurely pace. Before long, they’d reached the intersection of Catte and the High, crossing over and turning right on the other side. The street was humming with busy shoppers and students, many of them threading their way through the traffic on bicycles.

“Draco,” she said presently, her tone deliberately casual and offhand. “Can you ride a bike?” She might just as well have asked him if, growing up, he’d ever swung a cricket bat. The answer was obvious.

He regarded the bicycles gliding past in the street with obvious scorn. “Now why in the world would I have had need of a bike when I had a--”

“Sshh!” Hermione’s finger flew to her mouth and she looked around furtively.

“Broom!” he whispered. “Sorry!” And then he relaxed into a normal tone of voice once again. “Fuck’s sake, Granger, how could anything be better than that!” He let out a derisive snort of laughter and shook his head, though the look he gave her was fond.

“Oh, but riding a bike is fun! I always loved it. I used to imagine I was flying sometimes, when I was going really fast…” Suddenly, Hermione realised what she’d just said, and blushed at his wide, rather smug grin.   
“Okay, okay, point taken! Still, though… it’s very nice all on its own, you know. I could teach you, if you like.”

“Okay,” he answered airily. Their hands were still clasped, and playfully, he began swinging their joined arms forward and back in a carefree arc as they walked. They were just crossing the narrow passage leading to the Chiang Mai Kitchen when their eyes met. She gave him a tiny smile and a wink and he winked back, both of them remembering the day they’d eaten there with Hermione’s parents. It had been the first time he’d met them, and he recalled how nervous he’d felt beforehand and how quickly they’d put him at his ease. That had been a very good day indeed, even though it had ended with the two of them facing the unhappy prospect of a separation.

Today would be a sort of bookend to that day in early December. He only hoped it would go even half as well.

And then suddenly, there it was: Payne and Son, Silversmiths, a tall, narrow building with bay windows in the first and second storeys and a rather remarkable-looking statue of a dog holding a gigantic pocket watch in his mouth, perched on the narrow ledge overhanging the ground-floor shop front. Hermione tugged at Draco’s jacket sleeve, pointing delightedly at it. He nodded, giving her a quick smile, but was clearly beginning to feel apprehensive again, and anxious to move on. The passage they wanted was just there directly beneath the dog and watch, a very narrow, covered lane between Payne and Son and the next establishment, the Brittania Building Society.

Stopping at the entrance, Hermione pulled Draco close, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then Hermione rose onto her tiptoes, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

“For luck!” she whispered. “Though I bet we won’t need it!”

Draco bit back the cynical reply born of experience that was on the tip of his tongue, and merely nodded, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“Right, let’s get this show on the road, then,” he muttered finally, wiping suddenly clammy palms on the seat of his jeans as they turned into the passage.

It was a short walk along the very narrow, covered, cobbled alley to the pub, housed in a fifteenth-century building that had once been a moneylender’s establishment. The chequer board hanging outside like a calling card was a traditional moneylending symbol dating back to at least the thirteenth century.

Passing a dark, shingled section and then a winding, spiral staircase on the right, they found themselves looking at an outdoor beer garden further ahead, with the entrance to the pub proper before that on their immediate right.

It was ten minutes to three.

Taking a deep breath, Draco held the door open for Hermione and followed, and the two of them walked into the darkened interior of the pub.

“Straight to the back,” he muttered, his hand at Hermione’s waist as they walked amongst the patrons of the pub who were moving between the bar and their tables.

There were a fair number of people in for a late lunch, and once they made it to the small area in the back where the Ladies and Gents were located, it took close to ten minutes before the area was clear of people waiting to use the facilities. Then, looking quickly to right and left, Draco stealthily pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of his jacket and tapped the door of the storage closet once.

Instantly, there was the sound of locks disengaging. Draco tried the door knob and it turned easily. With one final look around, the two of them slipped past the door, closing it quickly behind them. The lock clicked back into place instantly.

And then they turned around.

“ _Oh!_ ” she breathed.


	19. Worlds in a Tangle, Part Two

  


  
Wizarding Oxford

“ _Oh!_ ” she breathed.

Spread out before them was a scene at once so familiar, with its aura of magic, as to be almost eerie, and yet quite different to anywhere they’d ever been in the wizarding world. Because this was Oxford, and not Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, and certainly not Glastonbury, each of which had its own special stamp. The same could most certainly be said of Bellewether Crescent.

The buildings were clearly quite old, the oldest dating back about seven hundred years and the rest ranging anywhere between two hundred and five or six hundred years in age. Some were half-timbered and overhung, but many others were made of stone, or plastered over and painted in bright colours, mirroring the scene they had just left behind in the High Street. However, unlike Diagon Alley, where everything seemed to be jammed together higgledy-piggledy, here there was a sense of order and structure and calm, as if somehow, the builders in each succeeding generation had had a sixth sense about how to space their new additions or any alterations they might be making to existing structures, so that nothing would feel crowded or cramped. Trees grew between buildings and on grassy areas alongside the generous pavements. There was even an open, public green bordered all around by shops surrounding it in an oval. Here people could stroll or sit beneath the trees, or enjoy the garden in the warmer weather.

“Bloody hell.” It wasn’t in the least what Draco had expected either. He stared for a moment, and then he seemed to wake up from his surprise. Shaking his head, he blinked and took Hermione’s hand once again. “Come on, Granger,” he muttered. “It’s nearly three. We’re looking for number nine, Mother said. The apothecary.”

The street was thronged with witches and wizards shopping, and here and there a lone figure plying his or her independent trade in tarot readings or palmistry. It was as busy in its own way as the High Street had been, only just on the other side of a narrow alley and yet an entire world away. There was the local post office on their right, the bank directly opposite (a local branch of Gringott’s, they were surprised to discover), and then a whole panoply of shops opened up before them in a rainbow display: blue, salmon, white, sea-green, cherry-red, bright yellow, purple, and more.  
Fascinated, Hermione and Draco found themselves looking right and left as they walked, so as not to miss a thing.

“Ooh,” she cried, pointing just after they’d passed Snowe’s Gems and Baubles. “Look!” It was a wide structure of palest pink with a large bay window in front, invitingly filled with a variety books. The sign above the window read “Wickenden’s, Ltd. Purveyor of Books, All Sorts.”

She began drifting towards the entrance only to find herself being hauled back, Draco shaking his head and grinning wryly. “Hah! How did I know?” he laughed. “Not now, sweetheart, sorry. No time. Maybe afterwards, though. I’d rather like to have a look myself.”

They found that Bellewether Crescent truly was aptly named, because it wound around to the left in a gradual, flattened half-moon shape, with two smaller lanes that branched out, one to the left immediately after the bank—this one, The Spit, connected to the nether end of the Crescent-- and the other to the right, just past the bookshop. That one was The Narrows, and connected the Crescent to the other main road that ran relatively parallel to it. This was Jiggery-Pokery Lane, which Draco and Hermione would discover later.

For now, though, they were busy watching the numbers. Snowe’s had been number three, Wickenden’s number four, and Sybila’s, a rather expensive-looking women’s clothing boutique, was number five. Rounding the curve of the Crescent, Hermione pointed to a trio of buildings on their right.

“That one’s six,” she said, and Draco took note of a shop specialising in stylish and somewhat unusual footwear. A Stargazer’s café was immediately next-door at number seven.

“There’s the hotel,” Draco observed, drawing Hermione’s attention to the rather imposing and quite grand-looking building just to the left of the café. The Damselfly Inn was at number eight. “Right, number nine’s got to be round here somewhere.”

There was a tug at his sleeve and he turned.

“There,” Hermione said quietly. And so it was.

Hixon and Grundleston’s Apothecaries stood directly across the road from the hotel, oddly set apart from the two nearest shops and framed on either side by towering and probably ancient beech trees.

“Right,” Draco said softly, almost to himself. “Come on, then.” Hermione felt him clutch her hand tightly and she offered a comforting squeeze in return.

The tall figure with the distinctive, silver-blond mane was impossible to mistake for anyone else. Lucius was standing between two narrow aisles crammed with merchandise, his back to them as they approached, examining an array of mortars and pestles in marble and finely carved woods of different sorts. Narcissa spotted them first, and she instantly raised a hand to wave, a delighted smile lighting her lovely features. Draco really did resemble her as much as he did Lucius, Hermione decided, looking from mother and son as they drew closer.

“Draco, darling! Lucius, look, they’re here!”

Draco and Hermione had, by this time, reached Narcissa, and as she gathered her son into a welcoming hug, Hermione dropped back a couple of steps, smiling shyly as she watched.

A moment later, Narcissa released Draco, who was smiling easily now despite his earlier trepidations. He stepped back and slipped an arm around Hermione’s waist, drawing her forward.

“Mother, here’s--”

“Miss Granger, yes.” Narcissa gave her a gracious smile, so much more spontaneous than the one with which she’d greeted Hermione at their initial meeting over tea two months earlier. “May I call you Hermione, dear?”

Hermione flushed and nodded, and the shy smile of a moment earlier relaxed, broadening into one of genuine pleasure. “Please! It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Malfoy. Thank you for including me.”

Then she paused. Lucius had moved to stand alongside his wife and now regarded Hermione and Draco with an expression of impeccable composure. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a slight, somewhat distant smile.

“Draco. And Miss Granger. How very pleasant.” He extended his hand to his son, whose own hand was now offered in a rather automatic gesture of dutiful civility.

“Father,” he said politely, and then carefully withdrew his hand.

Now Lucius turned to Hermione.

She paused, but only for a fraction of a second, and then made her decision.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, with her brightest possible smile, and moved forward to grasp his hand with unequivocal firmness. “It’s very nice to see you.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. No shrinking violet, this girl. Not any longer, at least. He wondered at her boldness, and then remembered the poise with which she’d eventually conducted herself the last time she’d been in his company, and the growing confidence of her self-expression. Apparently, first impressions in her case had not been misleading, but were instead an overture for things to come. He suspected that this trip to Oxford might just turn out to be far more interesting than he’d initially thought.

“Ah… yes. Draco’s mother and I are… pleased you could join us today. Come, Draco, let us walk ahead and allow the ladies to chat.” He laid a hand lightly on Draco’s shoulder and inclined his head towards the door.

Draco’s gaze fell for just a fraction of a second upon the hand that rested on his shoulder and then he nodded, allowing himself to be steered gently towards the exit. What the fuck had just happened? He had the uncanny sense that whatever it was, it had been something momentous, but that somehow, it had managed to elude him. He glanced up at his father, whose features were as regally composed as ever, and then over his shoulder at his mother, who was talking animatedly with Hermione. Then she reached over and touched Hermione’s arm warmly for just a moment. His eyes widened, and as he looked, Hermione glanced up and caught his eye. She winked, and a very tiny, very tentative nugget of warmth and well-being was suddenly ignited in his chest. Maybe— just maybe-- today was going to be all right.

*

Half an hour later, they’d had a rejuvenating cream tea at a tiny tea shop with the curious feature of having two different addresses depending upon which end of the shop one chose to enter from. They’d found Elementals at lucky number thirteen, as they’d completed their walk around the rest of Bellewether Crescent. It was at the tail end, situated alongside The Bindery, a small bookshop specialising in old, rare, and out-of-print books. Hermione had gazed longingly at its tantalising window display as they walked up the porch steps of the tea shop.

“I know, I know,” she sighed with a rueful grin, before Draco could even open his mouth. “Not now!”

He chuckled, giving her a tickling pinch about the waist. She twisted away from him with a small squeak.

Walking behind them, the senior Malfoys glanced at each other, Narcissa giving Lucius a meaningful look, and there was amusement in her eyes in addition to the obvious message she was sending. This was a girl who could make their son laugh, somebody he felt relaxed enough to be genuinely playful with, and openly affectionate besides. It was a first, and Narcissa was astute enough to notice-- and to make certain that Lucius did as well.

After tea, they’d discovered the back entrance, with the odd additional address of number five, The Loop. The reason became obvious almost immediately. Bellewether Crescent diverged just after Portia Gregory: Robes for All Occasions, to make a small half circle, a mini-crescent; this loop joined up again with the main road after passing Elementals and The Bindery, both of which had double addresses.

Now, at nearly half past four, they stood by the directory of shops that was posted just inside the entrance to the Crescent. There was a somewhat awkward moment as everybody seemed unsure of what to do next. Draco cleared his throat after a surreptitious nudge from Hermione.

“Um… would you like to… see the university, then? See where I live?”

He wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea, but after all, it would have seemed an obvious omission _not_ to ask. And his mother had such a bright smile on her face. He had the feeling she would jump at the idea. In her very dignified way.

Of course, she did.

“Draco, that sounds like a perfectly lovely idea. Your father and I have been most curious about where you have been studying and what sort of living arrangements you have.”

“Right…” Draco began, still somewhat noncommittal.

“Follow us,” Hermione piped up, nudging him again and darting him a questioning glance. “This way!”

Looping her arm through his, she half-pulled him along to the door through which they’d come, and then without waiting, she pulled out her wand, about to tap on the door once. Then suddenly she stopped short and whirled around.

“Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy—perhaps… um… well… you really don’t want to be seen walking round the streets of Muggle Oxford in your robes. You’re… um… Are you…?” Here, she blushed, unwilling to come out and ask whether they were in fact wearing ordinary clothing beneath the robes.

Narcissa looked startled. It was an eventuality she hadn’t even given a thought to in all the hurry of planning the trip.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, chagrined. “I’m afraid I…”

“Please--allow me,” Hermione said immediately, smiling, and then added, “You can take care of your dad, Draco.” Waving her wand in a graceful arc in Narcissa’s direction, she murmured, ” _Induviae transformo!_ ”

Instantly, the stylish, teal-blue robes Narcissa had been wearing were gone and in their place, there was a lovely and very smart two-piece suit in the same colour, an ivory silk blouse, and a pair of matching heels. She looked down at herself, startled and then immensely pleased.

 _Sense of humour, intelligent,_ and _resourceful. Hmm._

She cast a quick but penetrating glance at her husband, raising a "You see? What did I tell you?" eyebrow. Narcissa was on a campaign now. Lucius recognised all the signs. But… the Granger girl _was_ quick on her feet and magically quite clever, evidently. He gave his wife a faint smile of acknowledgement in return, nodding slightly.

“Very pretty, Mother.” Draco smiled his approval. “Nice work, Granger!”

He turned his eye on his father, tall and imposing in midnight-blue robes. Narrowing his eyes, he thought for a moment, and then inscribed a somewhat wider arc with his own wand, echoing Hermione’s spell.

When next Lucius looked down at himself, he was wearing a stylishly cut and tailored, charcoal-grey suit, a pinstriped shirt, and a claret-coloured tie. It was…rather elegant, if he did say so himself. Quite appropriate for dinner in a fine restaurant. Reaching up, he felt his hair, which was now pulled back into a neat ponytail. He might easily have passed for a senior partner in a solicitor's firm, or the Muggle version of exactly what he was in the wizarding world: a well-heeled corporate executive and a member of the landed gentry. Never mind that his name wouldn’t be found in any ordinary social register.

“Shall we?” Narcissa asked gaily. She was having a simply wonderful time, and so far, things were going swimmingly.

Now Draco did the honours, tapping on the door once. As before, a complex series of internal locks rearranged themselves, and he opened it slowly, peering through a crack to be sure nobody was around on the other side. Satisfied that the coast was indeed clear, he gestured for everyone to follow him and the four of them made their way through the pub into the narrow alleyway outside.

A fair number of shoppers still populated the High as they exited the passage. Draco was keenly aware, suddenly, that this was very likely one of the only experiences his parents had ever had—if not the very first ever—of the Muggle world. They would be stepping into a world that he’d grown to know fairly well in the last four and a half months. He remembered well how it had been for him in the very beginning: alien and strange, even bizarre at times, with almost nothing that one could take for granted. Very like visiting a foreign country in which the language was allegedly the same and yet full of mysterious code words for which one had no frame of reference, and customs and ways of doing things that were completely Other. He slanted a quick look at his parents to gauge their initial reactions to these new surroundings. Narcissa’s eyes were wide and intensely curious as she gazed around her at the busy High Street, with all its shops and bustle. Lucius’ face betrayed less, but that was only to be expected. However, Draco knew his father well enough to recognise the spark of interest behind the nonchalance and obdurate stoicism that veiled his grey eyes as they surveyed the scene.

“This way,” Draco said, gesturing to the right, and they began to make their way down the street, passing a pair of cafes, clothing shops, a bank, and then the impressive Oxford University Press bookshop. Apparently, something displayed in the window had caught his father’s eye. Lucius seemed to linger for a fraction of a second longer by the plate glass window, and Draco looked to see what in particular would have garnered such interest. In the display window, there were a number of books on various periods of British history, archaeology, and antiquities. However, this was neither Flourish and Blotts nor Obscurus Books, nor even The Bindery here in wizarding Oxford. It was the very Muggle OUP shop.

“See something that interests you, Father?” he drawled, unable to resist asking. “Fancy a look round the shop?” There was a slight but undeniably sardonic edge to his voice. Hermione looked over at him with a frisson of sudden surprise and apprehension at the same time that Narcissa turned sharply in his direction, her eyes flicking between his face and that of her husband.

To the casual observer, the question would have sounded quite innocent, at worst mildly teasing in nature. But it was more than that, and both women knew it. There was a certain perverse pleasure for Draco in the fact that his always-in-control father was decidedly out of his comfortable, familiar element. Not only that, he was in the very environment he’d always so vehemently proclaimed to be inherently inferior. And yet, could it be that such a place could possibly produce something of value and interest to the very discerning Lucius Malfoy? This peevish impulse to prod his father, to bait him just a little bit-- so apparent to his very perceptive mother and equally sharp girlfriend-- began to set off sudden, tiny alarm bells for both of them. Hermione moved quietly to Draco’s side, feigning an interest in the shop display. Her fingers curled around his, giving his hand a quick squeeze, her whispered “Malfoy, no” tickling his ear.

Standing beside Lucius, Narcissa caught her son’s eye in the next moment, and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Draco rolled his eyes in response to both of them and shut his mouth, preparing to walk on, when suddenly Lucius spoke, surprising everyone. Remarkably, his tone was utterly unruffled.

“Yes. I would, rather. Shall we?”

Everyone stared at him, momentarily nonplussed. It was Hermione who recovered her wits first. She smiled.

“Yes, let’s! I love this bookshop. It’s wonderful!” She turned to Draco, who was still standing there, dumbstruck, as his mother and father entered the shop. “Well, come on, silly! Your parents are waiting!”

Half an hour later, the four of them emerged, Narcissa and Lucius carrying shopping bags. She’d found a book on gardening that had proven irresistible, despite the expense. Along with classical music, gardening was a passion she had actively cultivated over the years, and the Lady Garden at the manor was her particular pride and joy.

Lucius had found a book as well. It was about mapmaking in the Renaissance, a period of turbulent activity both in the Muggle and wizarding worlds. What did it say about Lucius that he would have the slightest interest in a perspective on the Muggle world of several centuries ago, much less indulge that interest by purchasing a book about it? Draco was mystified.

A few doors down, Lucius stopped them yet again in front of Sanders of Oxford: Rare Prints and Maps. In the display window were several reproductions of antique maps, their spidery lines and arcane markings striking against the faded, parchment-like backgrounds. No surprise here—Draco had always known his father to have a fascination for antiquities, Dark objects as well as the more innocuous varieties. Maps—the older the better—were a particular passion. Lucius had quite a collection, some of whose rather more nefarious purposes were better kept secret and hidden. But these were not the wares of Borgin and Burkes drawing Lucius’ attention now. Nevertheless, he disappeared inside, everyone else dutifully in tow.

The maps he chose were reproductions he’d spotted in the display window, one a rendering of Wiltshire done in the early seventeenth century, and the other, a mid-nineteenth century map of the constellations visible in the spring sky. These he carried out of the shop carefully housed in sturdy cardboard tubes. Along with the book, they would be the first Muggle-made objects brought by choice into Malfoy Manor. Draco couldn’t help wondering just what he intended to do with them once he’d got them back home. The very idea of his father actually framing and displaying them for all the wizarding world to see was just impossible for Draco to grasp at this point.

Quite naturally, the Malfoys carried no Muggle currency, so Draco took care of the troublesome but necessary business of paying for his parents’ purchases, the bonus being the nice discount he received at the OUP shop, as a student at the university. Hermione’s eyes had widened when cashiers totalled the items in both shops, but not surprisingly, money was no object. They would reimburse Draco in wizarding currency that he would have Gringott’s convert into pounds, to be deposited later in his local account. Now, of course, he knew where he could take care of that locally, and he had to concede it was a definite benefit of becoming familiar with wizarding Oxford.

  


  
Lucius Malfoy's OUP purchase: The Mapmakers’ Quest Depicting New Worlds in Renaissance Europe, by David Buisseret £20.00 (Four Galleons, $40)

  


  
Lucius' 17th C. map of Wiltshire

  
Close-up, Lucius’ 17th-C. Wiltshire map

  
Lucius’ sky map, circa 1856

  
“Well, Draco,” Lucius remarked conversationally after they’d left Sanders. “Where next?”

This newfound affability was still registering small shock waves of disbelief in both Draco and Hermione, who knew Lucius far less well but had never had a positive impression of him, hitherto, either as a human being or as a father. In fact, until her visit to the manor for tea in early January, her impression of him was quite virulently the opposite. Of course, Draco’s reactions now were in direct response to a lifetime of exposure to his father’s distant personal manner as well as his entrenched elitism and racist beliefs. Now he began to wonder just who was walking around Oxford, inhabiting his father’s body.

The only one who wasn’t the least bit surprised was Narcissa. She smiled at her husband, wanting him to know how proud she was of the efforts he was clearly making. It was obvious, though only to her, that his pleasant manner was not coming all that easily to him; she could see the slight strain behind his eyes and the tiny lines in his forehead as he struggled to master his more natural impulses and remain open and tolerant.

Apparently, only she had noticed the fleeting furrow of his brows when Draco had made his slightly provocative remarks. If only Draco could know the extent of the efforts his father was making on his behalf. But this was something that had to work itself out between the two of them. She only hoped Draco would be astute enough to notice on his own, before she felt compelled to tell him herself.

“Uh… this way, Father,” Draco replied, indicating that they should continue in the same general direction, which was leading them towards the intersection of the High and Catte Street. They were nearly there. “I thought we’d walk over to the college now, and we could show you and Mother around a bit… that is, if…”

“Of course, darling,” Narcissa interjected. “Wonderful idea.” She smiled brightly, turning to Hermione and pointing. “Oh, look—what lovely clothing! Come!” Threading her arm through Hermione’s, she walked the two of them over to inspect the wares in the windows of a pair of fashionable boutiques, Toast and Brora, that stood side by side at the corner of the High and Oriel Street.

This left Draco alone with his father momentarily. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, slanting a look at Lucius’ face, which remained impossible to read behind the pleasant expression he wore like a mask. Now Draco found that he had a million questions sprouting like weeds inside his head. These were questions he would rather not have had at all, because they had caused a small but undeniable crack in the carefully constructed wall he’d built around his heart where his father was concerned. Now, they were wedging their way into that crack, widening it, opening him up to feelings he had thought were long deadened, given up as lost causes. He didn’t _want_ to wonder what his father thought of Oxford. He didn’t _want_ to wonder what his father thought of _him_. It was easier telling himself that he already knew he was a monumental disappointment, and just leave it at that, moving on from there with his life. It was so much simpler to leave his father as a cipher, nobody of any real consequence to him any longer. It was so much simpler just to continue walking away.

But Lucius wasn’t allowing him to do that anymore, it seemed. What had happened to change things? That was another question he was dying to ask and yet could not bring himself to voice. Instead, he cleared his throat and took a step closer to his father, who stood gazing around at the busy thoroughfare.

“You… spend a lot of time here in the city when not at your studies, I presume?” Lucius’ question ended the awkward silence.

“Yes, we… I do. Everyone does,” he replied, meeting his father’s gaze steadily now. “I like it,” he added, just a tad defensively.

“I can see that,” Lucius remarked. “You appear to have made quite a successful adjustment to life as a… to life _here_ ,” he amended, after a moment’s hesitation. “It seems to agree with you.” The observation still held a tinge of undisguised surprise.

Draco glanced quickly at his father, momentarily suspicious of the intent behind the remark. But Lucius’ expression betrayed no sarcasm, and his son relaxed his guard slightly.

“Thank you. I think it does too.” His tone was guarded. Lucius was looking at him with what appeared to be an open and interested expression, one eyebrow raised only slightly, and suddenly Draco found himself rushing on to elaborate, partly in defence of what he’d just said and much to his own surprise.

“I like it here very much, Father. People are…well, they’re just people, like everywhere else. But they’re nice, when you get to know them. Not…well…” He swallowed, suddenly reluctant to open such an obvious tin of worms. “And… I’ve made friends. They seem to like me. They don’t… they have no idea…” he trailed off, finding himself flooded with sudden feelings of bewilderment. What in Merlin’s name had he just done, blathering on like that to his father of all people? _He_ could never understand! This was mad, all of it! He clamped his mouth shut and turned away, flushing slightly.

Father regarded son with a speculative expression. Draco’s words and his subsequent silence had revealed far more than he had intended. That much was plain.

“Ladies,” Lucius called abruptly. “Shall we move on?”

The brief walk along Catte Street to Hertford took them past the Camera and the Bodleian Library, both of which elicited animated expressions of interest and appreciation from Narcissa. Lucius remained silent, but his eyes missed nothing as they walked.

Before long, they were at the main entrance to Hertford. Passing through, Draco pointed out the porter’s lodge.

“It’s where the postboxes are, Mother,” he said, gesturing. “We call them ‘pigeon holes.’ It’s where I pick up your letters. Notes to or from friends in other colleges as well. We ‘pidge’ them, see? Pigeon post,” he added.

Narcissa laughed. “Oh! Like--”

“Exactly that,” Draco grinned. “Metaphorically speaking.”

Narcissa smiled, looking around curiously. Intriguing place, this Oxford. Full of oddities and quirks. She suddenly remembered something Hermione had said when she’d come to tea two months earlier. Oxford has a magic all its own, she’d told them. The meaning of that was now becoming clear.

In the immediate left corner of the quad, the very distinctive dining hall, with its eccentric, wraparound façade fronting the spiral staircase within, attracted both Malfoys’ attention. Hermione flashed Draco a quick smile. Things were going well so far, better than she might have hoped. He gave her a lopsided but enigmatic grin in return.

The stairway in the corner of the quad that led to the Bridge of Sighs brought them out into NB Quad, where Hermione pointed out the JCR computer room.

“I really think,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice low now, “that the wizarding community needs to get on board with computers. They have really revolutionised communications in the Muggle world, and I think they could do the same for our world as well. I bet they’d really increase efficiency and productivity at your company, Mr. Malfoy.”

Narcissa and Lucius nodded politely, although all three Malfoys were inwardly taken aback at Hermione’s boldness. Not many people presumed to offer Lucius Malfoy suggestions on how to run his business concerns. It said rather a lot about this girl that she could summon the nerve to be quite so forthright. One might dismiss it as mere brazenness, but somehow, Narcissa suspected that might be a serious underestimation of young Miss Granger.

Draco led the way through the connecting passageway to their quad, Holywell, and they walked to its centre, with its cobbled and bricked courtyard, bike stands and wooden benches, and strategically placed shrubbery. He drew their attention to the Junior Common Room, its entrance in one corner.

“The JCR’s not just a place for students to hang out,” he explained, almost shyly, warming to the task of showing his parents around. “It’s the student organisation that deals with our concerns as well. They really do a lot for us.”

Between Draco and Hermione, they were certainly getting the cook’s tour, but it was precisely what Narcissa’s mother’s heart had been longing for. She could only hope Lucius had secretly been just as interested in a detailed glimpse of his son’s new life. She rather suspected that he had.

“Oi! Malfoy!”

A cheerful voice echoed across the quad just as they were about to enter Staircase 5. Turning, Draco and Hermione spotted Mark striding through from NB, a wide smile on his face. He reached them in a moment, stopping and grinning expectantly at the pair he knew at once to be his friend’s parents.

“How do you do?” he said, sticking his hand out in Lucius’ direction. “I’m a good friend of Draco’s. Mark Applegate. You must be his dad.”

There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, really, when it seemed that everyone around Mark had frozen. And then Lucius accepted Mark’s friendly handshake with a faint but polite smile.

“How do you do?” he countered, and then his hand dropped back to his side. “Lucius Malfoy.”

Mark nodded. “Pleasure, Sir. And you must be Draco’s mum,” he continued, oblivious to the weirdness of the dynamic that the other four were so keenly aware of. Running into his friends hadn’t been something Draco had anticipated. He’d forgotten that any of them would still be around during the vacation. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gave Mark a grin.

“Mark Applegate… my mother, Narcissa Malfoy,” he said, gesturing.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Applegate,” Narcissa smiled, offering her hand gracefully. “Are you not going home to see your family this vacation?”

Smiling, Mark took her hand. “No, not this time. I’m doing some research, so I needed to stay. I’ll probably go home next week sometime, though, just for a couple of days.” He turned to Hermione and Draco, draping a friendly arm around each of their shoulders. “So… what have you lot been getting up to? Seeing the venerable sights?”

“Yeah… we’ve just come from doing some shopping,” Draco replied. “Going out to dinner in a bit. Just wanted to show them my digs first.”

“Ah, yes. Not quite _all_ the comforts of home, but we like it,” Mark quipped. “Come on, we can walk in together, yeah? I’m just going up, too.”

Reaching the third floor, Draco explaining on the way about the tutors’ quarters being on the ground floor, he dug into his pocket for his room key. Meanwhile, Mark crossed over to room number nine, giving its door a solid whack with his fist.

“Oi! Spencer! You in there?”

A groggy voice replied. Even muffled, it sounded distinctly like a rather vehement “Sod off!” Then, the door was yanked open abruptly, and a tousled head stuck out, peering round the doorway, eyes slitted against the light.

“Applegate, you pointless, arse-brained, fuckwitted _twat!_ How’s a bloke supposed to get any sleep with you hauling off and…” Tony’s good-natured diatribe died away as he became aware, suddenly, of the pair of elegant, well-heeled parent-types standing with Draco and Hermione outside room twelve. “Oh! ‘Scuse me, sorry!” he muttered. “Just woke up. I’m not usually quite so uncivilised…”

“Tony Spencer.” Draco grinned wryly, nodding in his friend’s direction. “My parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.” Well, he thought, stifling a laugh, they’re certainly getting the full experience, warts and all.

The niceties out of the way finally, he opened the door and they walked into his room. Draco turned somewhat awkwardly around with a quick gesture that covered the entire room in less than thirty seconds, and cleared his throat. “Well, this is it.”

Plain, spare, functional and so _small_ …Not at all what their son had been accustomed to at Hogwarts, and _certainly_ not at home. The room was very nearly spartan in its simplicity. Not to mention… Well. Narcissa glanced around, an eyebrow delicately raised, but refrained from commenting beyond a tactful “Very nice, dear.” Her eyes met Lucius’ briefly and then they both glanced away. Their exchange of looks hadn’t gone unnoticed. In the past, their disapproval would have irked Draco terribly. And now? He turned away, trying to conceal his grin.

It was decided, in the end, that the simplest plan would be to have dinner in Bellewether Crescent after all. It was getting late, and Draco was chagrined to realise that he’d completely forgotten to book a table anywhere. At this hour, the wait in the finer restaurants would be ridiculous. And as it happened, there was a lovely restaurant at the Damselfly, Narcissa assured everyone. It was called Philomela, and she’d personally had a look at it when they’d checked in upon arriving that afternoon. The four of them Apparated from inside Draco’s room, arriving instantly in the lavishly appointed lobby of the hotel.

By this time, everyone was tired and hungry. The food at Philomela turned out to be delicious, if a bit prosaic in terms of selection. The remainder of the evening passed quite pleasantly as they dined and enjoyed a bottle of very good wine, the conversation dominated by Narcissa and Hermione. They kept a steady, bright stream of talk going in the face of the more reflective quiet that seemed to have fallen over both Lucius and Draco.

Finally, it was time to say goodnight. The Malfoys would leave early in the morning, so there would be no opportunity to see them again before that time, and truth to tell, Draco was feeling more than a little relieved about that.

Narcissa reached out to Draco, enveloping him in her embrace. The delicate scent of lavender filled his nostrils suddenly as he returned her hug. It had been very good to see her.

“It was wonderful to see you,” she said, over his shoulder, holding him close. “I had a perfectly marvellous time.” Then she leaned in close to his ear, her breath tickling him. “Be good to her, darling. She’s very special.”

Feeling suddenly too full to speak, he simply nodded, his soft hair brushing her face. Releasing him, finally, she stepped back and reached for Hermione’s hands. “It was delightful spending time with you today, my dear. I feel I’ve come to know you better.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said, smiling, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I enjoyed today very much indeed.”

She turned to Lucius then and held out her hand.

“Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy. I… I hope you enjoyed your visit. Thank you for including me.”

Lucius grasped her hand for a moment, and then released it. His words remained formal, but they were not unkind. “You are very welcome, Miss Granger. It was our pleasure.”

Then he turned to Draco, who waited. He was quiet, tense. Even more keenly than usual, he felt the familiar maelstrom of emotions as he anticipated taking leave of his father.

“Draco.” Lucius clasped his son’s hand firmly, searching his eyes. “I’m…”

“Thank you for coming, Father,” Draco broke in quickly. “I appreciate it.”

He really wanted to get away now. “I’ll see you both at the end of term, in June,” he rushed on. “We… we have to go now. Goodbye, Mother… Father!”

The clouds had cleared, opening a wide swath of black, diamond-studded sky to view, the air on this late-winter night crisply invigorating as they jumped the last step of the hotel’s veranda to the street.

  


*

  
Much later, they lay, drowsy and warm, in Hermione’s bed. Curled up on her side, her head rested on Draco’s chest, an arm and a leg draped over him. She really liked to cuddle after love-making, he’d discovered, and he loved holding her this way. He found himself feeling especially protective of her after they’d been intimate, more so than at any other time, perhaps because she’d just trusted him once again with a very private part of herself. She seemed to him particularly fragile in such moments. The scented cloud of her hair tickled his chin and he turned his head, blowing a wayward curl away from his mouth, drawing her closer.

Hermione pressed a soft kiss to Draco’s bare chest, briefly stroking his smooth skin with her fingertips before closing her eyes again. There was such a sense of peace in this island of quiet time they shared after making love. A quiet strength filled her, coupled with a powerful surge of affection for him, making her feel invincible and a part of something deeply primal and ageless.

“Love you,” he whispered, his fingers combing gently through her hair.

“I love you too,” came her soft reply. “So much.” There was a pause. “It went well, don’t you think? Today, I mean.”

Draco reflected for a minute. “Yeah… it really did. You were amazing, Granger. Mother really likes you, y’know.”

“I like her too, very much. I can see why you feel close to her. And your father… he was…”

Draco snorted. “I know! I couldn’t believe it. Merlin’s beard, I’ve never seen him like _that_. Not _ever_. Hey, d’you suppose Mother might’ve drugged him?” He laughed briefly at the thought, and then sobered. “D’you know, he actually asked me about my life here! _Asked_ me. And I…I found myself telling him. And then suddenly, the whole thing just seemed so… I don’t know, so _weird_ … I had to stop. I mean, it was _surreal_. Tell you something else, Hermione,” Draco added. “I think… I think he’s beginning to like you, despite himself. He’d never say it, not to me anyway. But I saw something in his eyes a couple of times when you were talking. I do believe you’ve charmed him.”

Hermione giggled, visions of a snake charmer suddenly filling her head. “Do you really think so?”

“I do, yeah. Fuck, Granger!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Did you see the look on his face when Applegate turned up in the quad and introduced himself? For just a second, I wasn’t sure what Father would do! He looked like he wanted to disappear! Or Vanish Mark! I mean, think about it: this was his first real conversation with an ordinary Muggle, _ever_. The only other ones he saw today-- close-up, that is-- were the two cashiers. And anyway, I paid, so he didn’t even really talk to them. And _then_ \--” Draco began to snicker quietly. “ _Then_ —did you see the expressions on both their faces when Spencer came bursting out of his room, swearing like a trooper?!”

Hermione nodded against his chest, giggling now herself.

“Totally gobsmacked, the pair of them!” Draco let out a guffaw, and Hermione clapped a hand over his mouth. Tremors of his silent laughter shook them both as she lay against him. “Nearly pissed myself! It was _priceless!_ Not to mention what they must have thought when they saw my room!”

His arms wound snugly around her as they laughed together, tears starting out of their eyes, and then he sighed deeply.

Hermione raised herself up on one elbow. “You _might_ have made your bed, at least,” she reminded him, and gave him a small, playful poke in the ribs.

“True, true, but this way, they really got the unvarnished picture, full-on. Poor Mother! To look at her, you’d have thought her precious baby was having to live in a hole in the ground.” He shook his head, laughing again.

“You’re awful, you are,” Hermione sighed, but even now, she couldn’t completely repress a tiny grin. “You must have known what she’d think. Your mum’s nice! You shouldn’t tease.”

“Oh, she’ll get over it. Besides,” he added, his eyes growing soft, “she knows I’m happy. That’s really all she cares about, not how big or posh my room is.”

“What about your dad, Draco? What do you think he cares about?”

Draco sighed again, pushing a hand reflexively through his hair. “I really don’t know anymore. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Hermione fell silent then, snuggling back into the welcoming shelter of Draco’s arms. She lay wrapped in thought for a time, and then raised her head to look at him. He was deeply asleep now, his chest rising and falling gently. Settling a light kiss on his pliant mouth, she lay back, closing her eyes. But sleep remained elusive.

  


TBC

  
A photo tour of the Malfoys’ day in Muggle Oxford follows.

  


**WIZARDING OXFORD DIRECTORY**

**  
**SERVICES:** **

  
**Bank:** Gringott’s branch 1 Bellewether Crescent  
 **Post office:** 2 Bellewether Crescent

  
 **SHOPS:**

  
 **Jeweller’s:** Snowe’s Gems and Baubles 3 Bellewether Crescent

 **Books:** Wickenden’s, Ltd. Purveyor of Books, All Sorts 4 Bellewether Crescent  
The Bindery 14 Bellewether Crescent/ 3 The Loop

 **Clothing:** Hobson’s 10 Bellewether Crescent  
Sibyla’s 5 Bellewether Crescent  
Portia Gregory, Robes For All Occasions 11 Bellewether Crescent

 **Shoes:** Heel and Sole 6 Bellewether Crescent

 **Quidditch/Broom supplies:** Flights of Fancy 3 Jiggery-Pokery Lane

 **Stationers:** (quills, inks, parchment) Havisham & Ellis 4 Jiggery-Pokery Lane

 **Divination Needs:** (candles, runes, crystals, tarot card decks, scrying mirrors, incense sticks, etc.) : The Third Eye 2 Jiggery-Pokery Lane

 **Wands and Staffs:** Campbell  & Sons, Fine Wands & Staffs Made in the Old Way 1 Jiggery-Pokery Lane

 **Apothecary:** (potions ingredients, herbs, vials, mortars and pestles,cauldrons)  
Hixon and Grundleston’s, 9 Bellewether Crescent

 **Magical Animals:** Familiar Friends 12 Bellewether Crescent

  
 **DINING:**

  
 **Fine Dining:** Philomela, the Damselfly 8 Bellewether Crescent/6 Jiggery-Pokery Lane

 **Cafe:** Stargazer’s, 7 Bellewether Crescent/ 5 Jiggery-Pokery Lane

 **Tea shop:** Elementals, 13 Bellewether Crescent/ 5 The Loop

  
 **HOTEL:**

The Damselfly Inn 8 Bellewether Crescent

And now, the Malfoys’ visit to Oxford:

  


  
Britannia Building Society, 132 High Street (covered passage is on the left, directly under the dog and pocket watch.) 

  


  
The covered passage leading to Chequers, 131a High Street

  


  
Dog and pocket watch above the covered passage

  


  
Payne and Son, Silversmiths, 131 High Street

  
OUP bookshop, 116-117 High Street, Oxford

  


  
Sanders of Oxford, 104 High Street

  
The intersection of the High and Oriel Streets

  
The Radcliffe Camera, or “Rad Cam,” which houses part of the Bodleian collection

  
Main entrance to the Bodleian Library

  
Inside the quad at the Bodleian

  
The Divinity School at the Bodleian

  
View of the Camera from the main entrance to Hertford, Catte Street

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All that’s mine are the original plot and characters, and wizarding Oxford. I make no money from this story.
> 
> A/N: My wonderful betas, kazfeist and mister_otter, deserve tremendous praise and thanks for their excellent support and much-valued friendship. Thanks so much, Karen and Carol!
> 
> Antique maps information and sales at Geographicus: http://www.geographicus.com/
> 
> Antique map reproductions can be found at The Old Map Company of Great Britain: www.oldmap.co.uk/ IsleofWight.html
> 
> Information about the Oxford University Press and its catalogue may be found at: http://www.oup.co.uk/
> 
>  _Induviae transformo_ : “Clothing, transform!”
> 
> The chapter title is the name of a track sung by Danny Kirwan of Fleetwood Mac on their “Blues Jam in Chicago” album. It was written by J. Lane.


	20. World in Harmony, Part One

  


 

 

Friday, 12 May  
4.28 pm

 

The taxi deposited them at the railway station with precisely two minutes to spare. Heaving their rucksacks over their shoulders, Hermione and Draco ran for the platform, hardly sparing a moment to breathe.

Tossing their bags down, they collapsed into facing seats, stretching their legs out and resting their feet on the seat opposite. For a moment, neither one spoke, being far too preoccupied with the business of gulping sufficient quantities of oxygen and waiting for their frantic heart rates to slow.

Finally, Hermione leaned back against the cushioned headrest, closing her eyes, and let out a sound that was half giggle and half breathy sigh.

“We made it!”

Draco pulled a face. “That, Granger, is a matter of opinion. I think I left half of me in the taxi when he made that last turn right into oncoming traffic!” He blanched once again, recalling the hair-raising turn in which they’d avoided a collision with a large lorry by only seconds.

“Well, he was just trying to get us here in time,” Hermione said lamely. She felt obliged to defend the driver, whose command of English hadn’t been very good and whose knowledge of the city’s streets had been shaky at best.

Draco let out an undignified snort. “Right! By taking every wrong turn he possibly could, including trying to drive down lanes obviously meant for bicycles and pedestrians only! We’re just lucky we didn’t get stopped!” He paused, pulling down the zip on his jacket and then raking an agitated hand through his hair. “Actually, we’re lucky we didn’t get _killed_.”

Hermione nodded, sighing again. He was right. But at least they had made it, and now they could relax for the next hour. They’d arrive in London’s Paddington Station at 5.27, barring any delays, then catch the Tube for a half hour’s ride to Queens Park Station, finally boarding the train to Watford High Street station for the last thirty-four minutes of the journey. They were scheduled to arrive at 6.41 pm. Hermione’s parents would meet them at the station.

Hermione thought back to the phone conversation she’d had with her mother the week before.

 

 _“Sweetheart, I know you’re awfully busy with your studies, but do you think you could manage a visit home next weekend? It’s Daddy’s birthday, you know.”_

 _“I know, Mum. I haven’t forgotten. It’s a big one too, this year, isn’t it?”_

 _“Indeed it is. His fiftieth. What do you think, can you make it? Bring Draco too. If you think he’d like to come, that is. He’d be more than welcome.”_

 _Hermione thought for a moment, assessing the work she had in front of her, and then made up her mind. “Thanks, Mum! I’ll ask him and let you know. But I’ll be there either way.”_

 _“Lovely! Let me know when you want to come. We’ll drive in and collect you.”_

 _“No, no, that’s not necessary, Mum. We can take the train-- it’s fine, really. I’ll ring in a day or two and let you know what time we’re arriving.”_

 _“Right, then. Talk to you soon, darling.”_

 

And now they were on their way. She’d hoped it would be a quiet weekend, just the four of them, but she wasn’t surprised, in the end, to learn that a party had been planned. It was to be a joint surprise for her dad and her Uncle Robin, his fraternal twin, and there would be both family and friends there. Not a little bit daunting, but she hoped Draco wouldn’t find it too overwhelming all at once. He’d been happy to accept the invitation, she recalled.

The thing was, she was quite certain he’d had no real clue what he was letting himself in for when he’d initially said yes. He couldn’t possibly have done. Even she hadn’t known about the party when she’d first invited him. And then, once the full situation had come to light, there’d been no question for him of backing out, even though Hermione had tried to give him the chance more than once. She recalled one such conversation:

 

 _“You’re… you’re sure you want to come? I mean…”_

 _“Yeah, ‘course I’ll come. It’ll be fun.”_

 _“But… I mean… it’ll be cousins and aunts and uncles and my parents’ friends…lots of them, probably! You won’t mind all that?”_

 _The briefest of pauses. Then, manfully, “Reckon I can handle it, Granger.”_

 

Difficult enough under normal circumstances, being the boyfriend that hordes of relatives and family friends have been hearing about and are dying to have a good look at, finally. But these circumstances were hardly normal. Draco had made tremendous strides since leaving home—well, since the last year at Hogwarts, really, when he’d finally begun acting on his changing feelings. And of course these last months at Oxford had been critical. The Muggle world was no longer nearly so off-putting or alien. Not most of it, anyway. Still… a whole _houseful_ of them bearing down on him all at once, first off—and second, the lot of them ready to cast a critical eye in order to assess his worthiness for their darling Hermione. Well, all that did seem just a bit much. And yet, here he was, sitting across from her, giving her one of his patented, bliss-inducing foot rubs. Well. _Nobody_ would give him a hard time, not if she had anything to say about it—not even Uncle Jack, who liked to take the mickey out of anyone, given half a chance.

Resolved, she nodded emphatically to herself, her mouth a determined line. Watching this from the other seat as he kneaded her instep, Draco bit his lip, swallowing a chuckle. He knew that look. It meant business. He wondered what it was she’d been thinking about.

The train to Watford rolled in just three minutes past its time, and as they exited their passenger car, Hermione spotted her mother waiting a short distance down the platform near the entrance to the waiting room and she broke into a spontaneous run, a wide, infectious smile on her face.

“Mum!”

Claire Granger opened her arms wide and her daughter flew into her embrace. The two of them stood that way, quietly hugging, for a full minute before Claire, looking over Hermione’s shoulder, spotted Draco standing back a few paces, a winsome, little smile raising the corners of his mouth.

“Draco,” she said warmly, releasing Hermione and then reaching for his hand. “I’m so glad you could make it! Though I’m afraid you’ll be having to run the gauntlet, as it were, on Saturday night. Don’t worry,” she added, laughing. “Just the family and a few friends, and they’re all very eager to meet you. They won’t bite!”

“I’m sure,” Draco replied politely, though in truth, he was anything but. Instinctively, Hermione slipped an arm through his, drawing him closer as they began walking towards the rain-slicked car park.

“Daddy isn’t with you?” She was curious.

“No, no, he’s cooking, and besides, he’s been very busy with his latest project. Tell you more about that in the car,” Claire replied. “Here we are.”

They’d arrived at a late-model, forest-green estate car, and Claire pressed the small clicker on her key ring to unlock the doors. Draco’s eyebrows shot up and he looked questioningly at Hermione. He hadn’t seen this particular Muggle device before.

“Unlocks the doors automatically,” she whispered. “Works by battery. Oh… well… you know, same sort of thing as a remote control for a telly.”

He nodded. Not bad. Rather impressive actually. Considering.

 

 

  
The Grangers’ home, Stratford Way, Watford

 

 

The Grangers’ home in Stratford Way was not a far drive, and Claire deftly manoeuvred through the early-evening rush-hour traffic with complete aplomb. A dense fog had fallen in the past couple of hours, and now the landscape was heavily shrouded in it. Headlamps from oncoming cars appeared like strange, Otherworldly eyes shining eerily through the heavy mist.

Watching the rain-dark streets of Watford flash by with their neat homes, still-bare trees and shrubbery standing in front gardens like sentinels, he took a certain quiet comfort in being an observer, disappearing into near-invisibility in the warm, shadowy recesses of the back seat. Nearly mesmerised at times as he looked out the window, he lost the thread of their conversation occasionally. Now he picked up a piece of it again.

“So what’s all this about a project, then? What’s Daddy been getting up to?” Hermione sat up front next to her mother, and in profile, Draco could see the marked resemblance between the two of them. Looking from one to the other was almost like seeing mirror images in a gentle time warp.

“You’ll see when we get home. It’s down in his workshop. He’s been working on it for ages, it seems.”

Hermione looked over her shoulder. “Dad’s got a workshop in the cellar. He likes to putter about, doing woodworking sorts of things. He builds furniture, did I ever tell you?”

Draco shook his head.

“He’s really quite good! You’ll see.” With a proud smile, Hermione turned to face front once again.

In a few moments, they were pulling into the driveway, the headlamps of the car switching off and plunging the area immediately ahead back into darkness once again.

The house was invitingly warm as they stepped inside. Richard was on his knees by the fireplace, adding a log and stoking the fire, which crackled pleasantly. There was a delectable odour in the air that had both Hermione and Draco sniffing appreciatively. Then she clapped her hands together delightedly.

“Oh, Daddy, you’ve made Bouillabaisse!”

Dropping her rucksack where she stood, Hermione ran to her father and grabbed him in a bear hug, a happy smile lighting her face. Richard gathered her close, resting his cheek on the top of her head, and gave her a fond squeeze.

“It’s been far too long, Kitten! Whatever were you thinking?” he scolded her gently, kissing her head.

“I don’t know! It’s wonderful to be home though!”

Turning a radiant smile in Draco’s direction, she beckoned to him. He grinned a bit self-consciously and moved toward the two of them, accepting Richard’s outstretched hand with a firm shake.

“Thank you for having me, Mr…. uh… Richard,” he corrected himself shyly.

“That’s better. No formality here,” Hermione’s father said, nodding in approval. “Now, then—are you two hungry? Because we have a feast waiting tonight, if I do say so myself. Hermione love, why don’t you take Draco upstairs to the spare room and drop your bags off, freshen up, and come right down. I’ll open some wine, shall I?” He looked quickly to Draco then. “Or would you prefer a beer, perhaps?”

“No, wine would be great,” Draco hastened to assure him. He was more than ready for a good, hearty meal and a glass or two of something nice, and then a relaxing sit-down by the fireside. And Bouillabaisse happened to be a favourite of his, from the days when his parents would take him on holiday to the south of France.

“Okay, Dad. Come on, Malfoy,” Hermione grinned, hefting her bag onto her shoulder and heading for the staircase. He was right behind her, and the two of them disappeared up the stairs and into the shadowy landing above. The moment they got there, Draco backed Hermione up against the wall in the narrow hallway, their bags slipping to the floor, forgotten.

“And just what do you suppose you’re doing?” she whispered. He could see the gleam of her teeth in the semi-darkness. She wriggled beneath him as he pressed against her. The sensations that resulted were utterly delightful.

“Oh, something entirely dishonourable, I assure you,” he murmured wolfishly, nipping at her neck.

“Good... I was hoping it would be!” She giggled, and then clapped a hand to her mouth. “Sshh… we can’t do this, not in the hallway!”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to be more quiet, won’t we,” he said, his voice smooth and very low in her ear. “I know just the thing.”

His mouth silenced hers in the next moment. There was a taste of spearmint from the gum she’d had on the train. Then he drew even closer, settling himself against her comfortably, sinking into her, wanting to drown in the softness and sweetness of her mouth, feeling the press of her breasts through the fine cashmere of his jumper. “Hermione…” he murmured, sighing quietly, his eyes closing as his lips found hers once again.

Every part of him intoxicated her-- his voice as he said her name, the scent of his hair and skin, the taste and feel of him-- and she lost herself in his embrace. Silhouetted in the half-light of the hallway, they stood nearly motionless for long moments, so close that they might have been joined. Only the languid, sweet meetings of tongues and lips betrayed the intensity of the fire that had been ignited and was now on a slow burn.

The sound of a throat being delicately cleared just at the foot of the stairs snapped them back to the present, and reluctantly, they separated, Draco touching his forehead to Hermione’s, both smiling foolishly as they tried to calm their racing hearts. Moments later, their bags stowed in the bedrooms and their hands newly washed, they rejoined Claire and Richard downstairs.

A large tureen sat in the centre of the dining room table. Wine in graceful glasses sparkled in the candlelight like gold under glass. At each place setting there was a large bowl in which were slices of French bread generously seasoned with olive oil, bread crumbs, and chilies. As Draco and Hermione sat down, Richard lifted the lid off the tureen and a cloud of fragrant steam escaped.

“Well, well, everybody pass down your bowls and plates. As I’m the cook, I’ll be mother tonight,” he said jovially, dipping a large ladle into the tureen and serving out portions of the fragrant stew, spooning the rich, thick broth over the bread. Large chunks of fish and seafood were served onto the accompanying plates, and passed down the table.

With a satisfied smile, Richard set down the ladle finally, and took up his spoon. “Dig in, everybody! Bon appetit!”

For several minutes, the sheer pleasure of eating consumed everyone, until finally, Claire laid her own spoon down, and sighed.

“Richard,” she enthused, “you’ve quite outdone yourself this time! It’s divine!”

“Oh yes, Daddy,” Hermione chimed in. “This is definitely your best yet!”

Draco looked from the two women to Richard. “You’ve done this before…” he began.

“Oh yes, certainly! I’m afraid I barge in and take over the kitchen rather more often than Claire would prefer. Isn’t that right, Claire dear?”

Her spoon halfway to her lips, Claire chuckled, shaking her head. “Of course it isn’t, silly! You may take over the cooking any time you like. I’m sure I don’t mind in the least!”

Draco spooned up a bit more of the rich stew mingled with soaked bread, and chewed thoughtfully. He tried to imagine his parents bantering with each other at the dinner table in this offhand, affectionate way, and even further afield, he tried to picture his father rolling up his sleeves and actually cooking a meal for the family. Quite frankly, he couldn’t even envision his mother doing that. So the mental image of Lucius getting his hands dirty with chores that were clearly the domain of house-elves was beyond fathoming. And yet, not only wasn’t it considered strange in this household—such a thing was actually within the realm of ordinary experience. This man who healed teeth for a living _chose_ to build furniture and cook for the sheer pleasure of both.

Not for the first time, Draco was struck by the sense that life in families other than his own truly was an alternative universe—but now, he understood that it wasn’t a question of Muggle versus magical. It was simply _people_ , and the fundamentally different way of living that the majority had, compared to his parents and the select numbers in their social strata.

He was amazed, now, that he hadn’t understood this very basic truth before, although in his defence, he reminded himself that his rarified upbringing was all he’d ever known. It had established the boundaries for what “normal” meant. Now those boundaries were gradually being swept away.

He glanced swiftly around the table before dipping his spoon into the stew for another bite. Sitting across from him, Hermione was laughing at something her mother had said. Her eyes were shining. Suddenly she sensed his gaze, and turned her eyes to his. There was a warmth in them that took his breath away, and an immediate, quite extraordinary sense of well-being swept over him like a wave. She was in her natural element here, amongst people who clearly cherished her, and she had chosen to share that with him.

A sudden, moist pricking at his eyes had him ducking his head for a quick gulp of wine.

 

  
Bouillabaisse, served two ways

 

*

 

The evening was relaxed, following the meal. Richard led Hermione and Draco down to his cellar workshop and proudly showed off a glass-fronted, hanging cabinet he had nearly finished building. He’d just added a warm, honey-oak stain earlier that day. It really was a fine piece of work, and soon he’d be installing it in the dining room, where Claire could display some of the distinctive pottery she’d collected over the years.

Following a quick tour of the workroom and some of the other pieces in progress, they repaired to the sitting room for conversation, accompanied by after-dinner shots of Grand Marnier and coffee, along with a luscious mixed-berry pie. Finally, they all lapsed into a stuffed, contented silence, watching small, merry sprites of flame dance and crackle round the hearth logs.

 

*

 

The mantel clock betrayed the lateness of the hour in the warmth and quiet that had fallen over the sitting room. Claire and Richard had excused themselves half an hour earlier.

“Oh goodness,” Claire had said sleepily, stretching as she stood. “I’m all in. I think I shall say goodnight. Coming, Richard?”

Hermione’s father had dozed off in his recliner chair, and now jerked awake at the sound of his name. “What… oh… oh, yes… Goodnight, you two,” he said, getting to his feet stiffly. “Don’t stay up too late.”

He followed his wife to the staircase, turning just before heading upstairs to give Hermione a pointed look. Although mild, its meaning was impossible to mistake. Hermione and Draco exchanged wary glances.

Meanwhile, Claire had reappeared after a quick trip upstairs.

“I’ve left fresh towels in the bathroom for both of you. Hermione, please see to whatever else Draco might need, won’t you? Sleep well, now. Goodnight!” She bent to kiss Hermione, and to his surprise, Draco received a quick kiss on the cheek as well.

After she’d gone, Draco stretched himself out on the sofa full length, pulling Hermione down next to him and wrapping his arms around her. “Your mum’s great,” he murmured into her hair, his voice lazy with the warmth of the fire and the wine and good food in his belly. “I can’t believe her sometimes. She makes me feel so… so…”

“Welcome? At home?”

“Both your parents do that. It’s more than that. She treats me like I’m family. It’s…”

“I know. That’s the way she is if she really likes somebody.”

“Oh, I _see!_ ” His voice took on a teasing edge. “So… am I to assume that all my predecessors got this sort of treatment as well?”

Spooned against him, Hermione idly ran a finger inside the cuff of his jumper sleeve, stroking the soft skin of his inner wrist, the veins blue against the pale, translucent flesh. “Naturally.”

Draco grinned. “Mmm. Well, I like it. Just so long as there’s nobody waiting behind me in the queue,” he teased, giving her bum a pinch. “Hey, what was that look your dad gave you anyway?”

Hermione gave a quick laugh, curling their fingers together and then raising their two hands so she could nuzzle his. “Dad is many things, but subtle isn’t always one of them!”

“You mean,” he replied, his eyes wide with mock innocence, “I really do have to sleep in the spare room?”

“Yes, you really do, Malfoy,” she announced firmly. “Otherwise, I’ll be carting you back to Oxford in a basket. We had a close enough call on New Year’s Day, remember?”

“I just don’t know, Granger…” He shook his head ruefully, ignoring the question. “This really is asking an awful lot of me. Deprivation is quite harmful to a man’s physical and emotional health, y’ know. Besides,” he added, a wicked gleam in his eyes, “I’ve grown quite used to being kicked and elbowed and having only a few inches of mattress to sleep on at the weekends. Not to mention having the covers stolen. Don’t know what I’d do with a bed all to myself!”

“Are you implying that I hog the bed?”

“No.” A pause. “I’m _saying_ it.”

Another, longer pause. Then,

“No! Stop! _Not under the arms_ … Granger, I said _stop!_ (gasps of laughter) … _NO!_ You’ll be sorry, little girl! (growling)… leave _OFF_ … okay, _OKAY_ , I take it back!”

The smile she gave him was smug.

“Better.”

 

*

 

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear after the rain and fog of the night before. There was a newly washed freshness to everything, a clarity, that brought out the colours of earth and sky and the black of bare trees.

Draco awoke, his head still a bit muzzy with all the alcohol he’d ingested over the course of the evening. There had been several glasses of that delightful Rousanne before and during dinner, the after-dinner liqueur they’d all enjoyed, and then the last of a bottle of champagne he and Hermione had unearthed in the fridge after her parents had gone off to bed, shared as the evening had waned and the fire had died down low.

His initial thoughts on opening his eyes were confused ones, as blearily he gazed round the unfamiliar room and wondered where in the name of Circe he was. Then reality very gradually sank in, and he recalled the previous evening.

Flopping back on his pillows, he allowed his eyes to rove about the room and really take in his immediate surroundings for the first time. The walls were painted a pale, sea-foam green, the mouldings and window frames the colour of cream. There was a tall, plain chest of drawers in natural pine, a matching desk and ladder-back chair, a late-model computer and printer on the desk along with an array of framed family pictures. On the large triple window, top and bottom, there were rows of louvred shutters also painted the same rich shade of cream. They were drawn back completely, and sunlight streamed in unimpeded. Draco groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. _Too bright_. And then he remembered. He’d been so tired, and frankly, sufficiently sozzled that he’d stumbled in, barely managing to pull off his jumper and jeans before crawling beneath the ivory duvet. Drawing the shutters had been the last thing on his mind at the time.

What time was it anyway? He glanced at the bedside table and then at the chest of drawers and desk, in search of an alarm clock. Nothing. Then he recalled his wristwatch, which he was relieved to find was still securely on his left wrist.

 _Half twelve_. Fucking hell! He listened for a moment, and suddenly became aware of sounds of life coming, muffled, from downstairs. He strained to hear better, and found he could pick out both Hermione’s and Claire’s voices above a clatter of dishes and cupboard doors closing.

Yawning and stretching luxuriantly, he slipped out of bed, pulling on a tee shirt and his jeans. He studied his face in the bathroom mirror, running a finger thoughtfully over the golden stubble on his jaw before brushing his teeth and throwing some cold water over his face. He’d shower and shave in a little while. Right now, though, his stomach was demanding sustenance and his curiosity was getting the better of him regarding what everyone was so busy about downstairs.

As he made his way down the stairs, he was surprised to discover himself feeling just a little bit shy and hesitant suddenly. It was his first time as a houseguest of the Grangers, officially anyway—only his second time ever sleeping under a Muggle roof and the first when the entire family were home and about. He’d made it halfway down the stairs when he heard an exuberant “Malfoy!”

Hermione was standing in the centre of the sitting room, a clutch of dirty glasses from the night before in her hands. She wore slim, black leggings and a hugely oversized red tee shirt on the front of which was the word “hornets” in giant black letters, and under that, what appeared to be a moose’s head on a field of yellow and black, beneath the word “Watford.” He had no clue what sport it was meant to suggest, but he suspected that Richard would be more than happy to explain if he asked. In fact, the shirt itself was probably Richard’s—the Hermione he knew was hardly sport-minded.

She beckoned to him with a cheeky grin. “Well, it’s about time, Lazybones! I thought you were going to sleep all day!”

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Claire walked in from the direction of the kitchen.

“Good morning, Draco,” she smiled. “Or perhaps I should say ‘good afternoon.’ Hungry?”

He nodded. “Starved, actually!”

“Hermione, please make sure Draco gets something to eat. I’m actually on my way out to do a few errands. There’s still a bit of the vegetable and cheese frittata and some bacon warming in the oven. Does that sound good?”

Oh yes. That sounded _fantastic_. Thanking Claire, Draco jumped the final three steps and happily followed Hermione into the sun-drenched kitchen, where she bade him sit at the centre island.

“It’ll just be a sec. Coffee?” Her voice broke into the reverie into which he’d fallen, in the warming light that bathed the part of the kitchen where he sat.

“Oh… yeah… thanks, love,” he murmured, and slipped off the stool to move directly behind her, threading his arms around her waist and leaning in to deposit a light kiss on the soft skin just below her ear. “Mmm… you smell good. I missed you last night, y’ know.”

Hermione smiled and put the plate of food down on the countertop, folding his arms within her own. “I missed you too,” she said quietly. “A lot. It’s only one more night though.”

That was true. They’d be back in Oxford by tomorrow night. Much as this weekend was turning out to be an oasis of calm and enjoyment-- a sort of mini-holiday in which he was feeling utterly cosseted and quite wonderfully relaxed-- he did look forward to having Hermione all to himself again, in the privacy of their rooms. He was struck, suddenly, by just how territorial he’d gradually become where she was concerned, and how comfortably used to their converging routines he’d grown, as well.

She turned in his arms and gave him a peck on the nose. “Breakfast,” she said firmly. “Sit.”

Obediently, he took his seat once again and hungrily attacked the bacon and the savoury mix of eggs, cheeses and vegetables she set before him, along with toast, fruit juice, and coffee. Hermione perched on the stool next to him, her own steaming mug of coffee in her hands, and watched as he ate.

“So here’s what’s happening later,” she told him, as he busily plied his fork. “We’ve booked at Dad’s favourite restaurant and we’re meeting Uncle Robin and his family there at eight o’clock. Everybody else will get there by half seven. I _hope_. And then when we arrive, voila, the big reveal, and we’re off to the races.”

Draco nodded, his mouth full of the most delectable egg and cheese combination he’d ever had. Finally, swallowing, he shook his head, sighing contentedly. “Merlin, Hermione, I knew your mum was a great cook, but this… this is amazing!”

Hermione averted her eyes, an embarrassed smile and the beginnings of a becoming blush heating her cheeks. “Actually, I made it.”

He stared at her. “You? Seriously? What else can you do that I don’t know about? Never mind, don’t answer that,” he laughed, slipping his hand around the nape of her neck and drawing her close. “Surprise me!”

He was kissing her quite soundly and thoroughly enjoying himself when the noise of the kitchen door opening interrupted them.

“Ah… hello, you two,” Richard said, slightly abashed at the sight. His subsequent efforts to ignore them were an abject failure. Nevertheless, he carried on trying whilst unpacking groceries from the shopping bags he’d set on the kitchen table, keeping up a stream of cheery chatter about the weather and where he’d been and traffic in town.

Hermione had begun helping him put things away, but now she caught Draco’s eye and grinned, briefly rolling her eyes, before turning her attention back to the task at hand. Meanwhile, Draco was just finishing his meal, draining his cup for that last, satisfying gulp of coffee.

“Delicious,” he sighed, patting his stomach happily. “Thanks.”

From the fridge, where she was busy putting vegetables away in a bin, Hermione turned and gave him a bright smile.

Collecting his dishes and cutlery, he brought them over to the sink, ran some warm water over them, and then hesitated for a moment, peering down at the dishwasher. He knew dirty dishes went inside—he was fairly sure he remembered Hermione putting some in there on New Year’s Eve, though that could have been a figment of his imagination, as he’d been fairly drunk at the time-- but he’d never actually used a dishwasher himself.

“Here, let me help you with that. Every one of these is slightly different, I’ve found. Ours opens like this.” Richard was there at his elbow suddenly, turning a knob to release the lock and then easing the door down.

His voice had been kind, and Draco sensed that somehow, Hermione’s father had instantly understood his dilemma. More than that, he could have sworn he spotted a fleeting smile of approval in Richard’s eyes.

He knew that he’d just done something right, but he wasn’t certain precisely what. Parents were funny that way, he decided rather philosophically. The oddest, most inconsequential things struck them as significant and they never forgot them.

 

*

 

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. One rather singular part of it involved a car ride around town. Draco marvelled at Hermione’s skill at navigating the ring road, especially busy on a Saturday afternoon, and was promptly shocked into silence at her Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation into a young woman with a rather colourful vocabulary when they were nearly cut off several times.

“Holy shit, Granger, didn’t know you had such a mouth on you!” he whistled. “You put _me_ to shame!”

Hermione let out a sheepish giggle. “Yes, well, I suppose I can get pretty foul-mouthed behind the wheel sometimes! Oh, look,” she pointed, eager to change the subject. “There’s the shopping centre.”

A huge, enclosed structure with a glass roof, the Harlequin Shopping Centre contained over 130 shops, restaurants, and other services, and was a key attraction adjacent to the Watford Town Centre. The rest of the tour included a look in passing at the Fire Museum, and then at a museum dedicated to Watford’s history, and finally, the Vicarage Road sporting grounds shared by the local football club, the Watford Hornets, and the Saracens Rugby Club.

Suddenly Draco had a thought. “That shirt you’re wearing—is that…?”

“Yup,” Hermione confirmed. “It’s an old shirt of Dad’s, really. I just sort of… borrowed it a while back.”

Draco couldn’t help laughing. “You mean you nicked it.”

“I nicked it, yeah.” She grinned. “Dad’s a huge Hornets fan. Always has been, since he was a kid. He grew up here, y’ know. He and my uncles are just rabid about football. Rugby too. They love the Saracens. We used to go to matches with my uncles and cousins all the time when I was younger.”

He sighed. “Tsk! The vocabulary of a sailor, thievery _and_ a keen interest in sport? My, my, Granger, whatever am I hearing? This from a girl who can’t even follow Quidditch well enough to explain it?”

“I can too follow Quidditch!” she retorted hotly. “I’m just not a lunatic about it, that’s all. And besides,” she said primly, “anybody can follow Quidditch. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“Not exactly what?”

“Oh, sorry,” she began.

“Muggle expression,” they said in unison, and both laughed.

“One thing, though…” Draco couldn’t help asking, after a pause. “If the football club are the Hornets, why’s their symbol a moose?”

“It’s not, actually,” Hermione replied, shaking her head with a small giggle. “It’s a hart. ‘Hart’ as in ‘Hertfordshire,’ see? And Hertford College, of course. But their colours are black and yellow, like a--”

“Hornet. Right.”

They drove on in companionable silence for a time, and then Draco broached yet another subject, one that had, in truth, been giving him small niggles of worry throughout the day.

“What about… well, I mean to say… who’s going to be at the surprise party tonight?”

Hermione slanted a quick, appraising glance at Draco. “Well,” she began, “my uncles and aunts, for starters, and their kids. There’s Uncle Robin. He’s my dad’s twin. He and Aunt Lucy have three kids: my cousin Michael, who’s twenty-one, and then Jamie—he must be about eighteen by now—and then Alex. She’s thirteen, the baby of the family. Then, my Uncle Jack, who’s three years younger than Dad and Uncle Robin. His wife’s Aunt Karen, and their kids are Jody and Kat. They’re fourteen. Fraternal twins, just like Dad and Uncle Robin.” She paused. “Weird coincidence.”

“That doesn’t seem too bad,” Draco started, relieved.

“I’m not done yet!” Hermione chuckled. “There’s still my dad’s parents. And then there’s Mum’s side of the family, the Billingsleys. Gran and Grandpa, of course, and Uncle Peter. That’s Mum’s older brother. His wife’s my Aunt Jane. They’ve got a boy, David, who’s fifteen, and two girls, Vicky and Joanna. We call her Joey. They must be about twelve and ten now, I think.”

Draco sighed explosively. “Is that it, then?”

“Not quite. Mum said that both she and Aunt Lucy invited some of their friends as well. Not absolutely sure who, but I think I can guess regarding my mum’s choices at least. They’re all very nice, really. They’ve known me since I was little. You don’t have to worry, Malfoy, honestly.” She reached over and gave his arm a quick, affectionate squeeze. “You won’t be on your own with them. Promise.”

Nevertheless, disturbing visions of an army of strangers surrounding him with hostile intent began intruding into his thoughts. He shook himself to banish the images and cleared his throat. “So tell me… what’s your family like, then? What was it like growing up with such a large one?”

The question was well-founded. His own family was absurdly small: one aunt who had been a bona fide psycho-- no cousins there, thank the gods!—and another aunt, uncle and cousin he’d never been permitted to know, growing up. Now it was too late: two out of three of the Tonks family were dead. Then, of course, there was Sirius, the cousin who for years had had the dubious distinction of being the biggest blot on the Black family name. Ironically, he would be the one that Draco would eventually wish he’d had a chance to know. And his would be the death brought about from within the family itself, in a particularly nasty twist of fate. There was one surviving grandparent, his maternal grandmother, Druella Rosier Black, but she’d been on the Continent for most of his young life; time spent with her on the rare occasions he saw her at all meant nothing more than an elegant figure in a heavy cloud of expensive perfume and luxuriant furs, someone who brought costly gifts but never stayed. Beyond that, there were more distant cousins, but they were just empty names in the very occasional, family-related conversation between his parents he might overhear.

Hermione’s eyes grew warmly reminiscent even as she focused them on the traffic ahead. “Well, first off, it’s really not a big family at all. It’s a relatively small one, actually, by Muggle standards. But it’s always been fun having cousins pretty close to me in age. Especially, you know, because I’m an only child. We got together every holiday, and sometimes we’d spend weekends at each other’s houses, and that was great. All of us cousins would sleep in one room and stay up all night, and act out stories…Michael was always Peter Pan and I was Wendy…” Hermione’s voice faded into silence and her eyes became dreamy as she retreated into a particularly fond memory.

“Peter Pan?”

She looked at him askance then. “You don’t know **Peter Pan**? Merlin, Draco—it’s wonderful! It’s a book by J.M. Barrie about a magical boy who can fly and lives in Neverland, and there are Indians and pirates and mermaids and fairies, and he has adventures and never grows up…oh! It was always my favourite! Funny…” Her voice grew soft and wistful. “I loved it when I had no idea that magic was real… I only wished it could be.”

A world in which one had to dream of magic, wish for it to be real… Draco couldn’t imagine what such a thing must have been like.

“Who was Wendy then?”

There was a soft smile on her face as she paused a moment before answering. “Oh, she… she was a girl who longed for magic and loved stories…”

Of course. He smiled to himself and then ventured a quick glance at Hermione. Her eyes were unnaturally bright as she looked straight ahead at the traffic.

The car was silent for a few minutes and then her face lit up once again. “Oh, let me tell you more about my uncles. They’re real characters. First off, Uncle Robin.”

“Your dad’s twin.”

“Right, yes. You can definitely tell they’re brothers, but you wouldn’t know they’re twins. Both he and Uncle Jack are thin like Dad, but Dad’s taller and fairer than both of them. Facial features are pretty similar on all three, though. They all look like my grandfather, Dad most of all. Uncle Robin read English at Oxford, you know, from ’68 to ’71, and stayed on to get his doctorate.”

“Really!” Now this was an intriguing bit of information he hadn’t expected. “What does he do now?”

“He teaches, actually. At the University of Essex. Been there for ages now. That’s where he met Aunt Lucy. She teaches as well. You’ll really like them, Draco. They’re great to talk to. And Uncle Robin’s got _loads_ of Oxford stories… it’s because of him that I always dreamed of studying there someday. And then… there’s Uncle Jack.”

There was a certain cautionary tone in her voice at the mention of his name.

“What about him?” Draco asked warily.

“Well, you want to watch yourself around him. He teases everybody. When I was little, I hated it. First, I’d get really angry, and then I’d cry. It was horrid. I was much too sensitive. Now I just let his teasing roll right off me. Aunt Karen’s got him sussed, though. He doesn’t get away with much around her.”

“What do they do? For a living, I mean?”

“Oh, well, Uncle Jack’s in advertising. He’s a copywriter. And Aunt Karen’s a stay-at-home mum. Last, there’s Uncle Peter. He’s just an old softie, really-- very kind. He always has sweets for all the kids in his pockets. He’s a lot like my mum, very warm and down to earth. He’s a solicitor in London. So’s Aunt Jane. You’ll like her too. She’s great, very sharp.”

Her eyes searched Draco’s suddenly. “You okay with all this? I know it’s a lot.”

“Oh, yeah. No worries.” His tone was light, but strands of nerves had begun to twist themselves into a small knot in his stomach. He glanced at his watch, and despite himself, he began counting the hours until the party. A mere five. Suddenly, he wished for nothing more than to be sitting on his narrow bed in his room in Staircase 5, safely buried within the covers of **English Villagers of the Thirteenth Century**. Or simply that it was tomorrow morning already, and he could look himself in the eye whilst shaving and know that he hadn’t cocked it all up and embarrassed himself, Hermione or her parents.

And then a rather disconcerting thought occurred to him, and he turned to Hermione as she manoeuvred the car into the driveway and turned the key in the ignition to “off.”

“What have your parents told everybody about… well, I mean, when you were at Hogwarts all those years? Where did everybody think you were? Do they know…?”

“About me being a witch? Nope. Mum and Dad told everyone I was away at boarding school in Scotland, but they never really said where. Bit tricky, that. They made up some daft thing or other about letters tending to go missing in the local post office, and asked everyone who wanted to write just to send the letters to them instead, so they could supposedly put them all together in parcels every couple of weeks. Then they sent all of it to me by owl. Dumbledore gave them one to use for the time I was at school. Must have done for the families of all the Muggleborns. I would post the replies to Mum and Dad, and they’d send them on to my grandparents or whoever. Bit complicated! But there was no other way.” Hermione grinned wryly, shrugging. “We managed. If anybody thought it all sounded a bit dodgy, they never said.”

Draco considered briefly. “And…” he began slowly, “what about us, then? Is the official story that we know each other from years ago, or only since Oxford?”

“I think we’re supposed to have met at uni. But I’ll check with Mum on that. Wouldn’t do for us to have different stories!” She giggled. “What a disaster that would be, can you imagine…!”

He could, actually. Only too well. That knot in his stomach gave another violent twist and he swallowed hard.

 

 

 

  
Go, Hornets!


	21. World in Harmony, Part Two

